


A Sherlock In Pink

by TheSherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, BAMF!John, Captain John Watson, Consensual Kink, Daddy John Watson, Daddy Kink, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Frottage, Guaranteed happy ending, Jealous John, Light Angst, Lingerie, Love Confessions, M/M, Military Kink, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, OC Females - Freeform, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Can Be Good, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Victor Trevor - Freeform, Virgin Sherlock, Younger Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11144067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSherlocked/pseuds/TheSherlocked
Summary: John Watson is invalided home after his time in Afghanistan, a broken man with no real prospects, and a dwindling bank account. Former colleague Mike Stamford introduces him to the most unusual young man John has ever met, a tea shop owner that looks more like a runway model than anything else, but with a mind like a steel trap. An AU meeting, where John comes back into his own, and Sherlock learns some of the most valuable of life lessons.





	1. The Study

Another day, another pointless therapy appointment where he was forced to explain that nothing ever happens to him. Six months back in London, and two out of hospital, but John was no closer to losing the limp that was his unreliable companion as he made as much haste as possible from Ella’s office. The cane at his side was given a glare, but John pressed forward, determined not to let the throb win this round. So intent was he on this project, that people around him were more or less a blur, and kept going in a pointed rush, not noticing the man he walked past as someone he’d once known as a friend.

“John! John Watson!” The man calling out hadn’t caught John’s attention yet, but he stood up from the bench on which he’d been sitting, and waited until John turned around. Brown hair, closely cut, glasses of three shades of brown, brown trench, brown briefcase. No real flash of recognition on John’s face, the fellow explained further, "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.” His cheeks are a rosy pink, the unremarkable blue eyes full of good intent.

A moment taken, and John smiles a little stiffly, “Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.” John offered his hand, although he wasn’t looking much more comfortable than he had before realizing who Mike was. “Hello, hi.”

Mike pats his stomach, a cheery smile on his face, “Yeah, I know. I got fat!” There’s no bitterness in comment, just stating the facts as he sees them, and obviously pleased to see John after so long. He’s pumping John’s hand with considerable enthusiasm.

John doesn’t really know how to react to that, and tries to sound convincing as he reclaims his hand, “No.” His reply falls a bit flat, but he turns his eyes down to glance at the pavement, and Mike acts like nothing unusual is taking place.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?” Behind the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses, Mike’s eyes are still a placid blue, reflecting the calmness of a man that is content with his lot in life.

John’s are very different, the cobalt threaded with a darker grey shifting restlessly, and his throat constricts. “I got shot.” It’s a balmy afternoon, not hot in the least, but his thin plaid shirt and medium weight jacket both suddenly feel like too much. There’s a rolling back of his shoulders, tightening them.

Mike recovers first from the awkward lapse, and gestures down the street, offering information. “I’m teaching now, at Barts. Bright young things, like we used to be. What about you? Just staying in town ‘til you get yourself sorted?”

“I can’t afford London on an Army pension.“ Mike looks genuinely interested, and it was the direction in which John was going anyway, so when Mike begins to walk in the direction indicated, John falls into step beside him. He hasn’t anything else to do today, and the last thing he really wants is to return the dull surround of his bedsit. John isn’t sure what Mike’s normal speed is, so he’s not certain if the other man has slowed down to accommodate for John’s limp, but he knows they aren’t going in the direction of Barts. “Where are you going?” 

Although they are walking together now, John hasn’t included himself in the question, but Mike changes that. “I took the afternoon off today, and need to go visit one of the local shops. Anniversary next week, so I thought we’d head that way.” A few steps more toward their destination, and he looks about the scenery, casually taking in the few people that have also left work early, the parents with strollers and young children hurrying to the playground nearby, and the pigeons that have taken over a section of the park. “Couldn’t Harry help?”

It takes a few seconds for John to catch up with the change back to the everyday living topic, his mind set on a cuppa after Mike explained their joint destination. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” He barely manages to contain the scoff from his statement, but there is a bit more good humor in it than had been there previously. 

It’s then that Mike swivels a look John’s direction, a smile playing along the sides of his mouth that John can’t read. “I dunno – get a flat share or something?”

This time, John doesn’t bother to hide the derision from his voice. “Come on – who’d want me for a flatmate?” He isn’t meeting Mike’s eyes this time, keeping them strategically forward on the turn just ahead. Old habits, he’s still accustomed to wanting to be in control, and the temporary forgetting of this that had led to his meeting up with Mike are again at the forefront of his mind.

Mike emits a short laugh, his ruddy cheeks more florid than when they began, a combination of his present humor, the exercise, and the light wind coming down the strip of street they’ve been on the last minute or two.

“What?” John is on edge now, flashing Mike an almost defensive look, and his back definitely does straighten more before he hears a reply.

"Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.” Mike is slowing his pace, but he isn’t turning to face John or make any sign that they are about to part ways.

“Who was the first?” John gets the question out, but barely a second before Mike is smiling pleasantly, and opening the door to a shop that John had almost gone straight past.

“Here we are.” Mike isn’t answering him, but John reroutes, wondering at the identity of this other person, and scanning the outside window display. A neon pink sign reads: The Study. The odd discrepancy between the formal name and the design of the sign, throw John for bit of a loop, and he hastily runs his eyes along the rest before noticing there isn’t anything else to see. Streamlined, and after a delay out on the pavement where John vacillates about going in, he follows Mike.

There’s no bell above the door or shop cameras to herald their arrival, but Mike keeps walking, his gait slowing like he feels he might be the bull in the china shop. He’s smoothing down his striped tie, the green, yellow, and red appearing like someone’s attempt at a Christmas trio, but it’s the wrong time of the year for them. Keeping his briefcase in check, he turns to the right where the wooden cases that double as a service counter are lined end-to-end all the way to the back of the shop. Once there, the briefcase is set on the countertop, and he sets the bottoms of each palm along the strip of metal that forms the case’s more solid structure. He doesn’t seem in a hurry, but he isn’t looking back to see where John is either.

The air is cooler than outdoors, and John stops a few steps offside from the entrance. Despite the improvement in the temperature, he has to take a moment to just breathe. Once he’s got his bearings, his eyes make another brief surveillance of the interior, then he takes his phone from his pocket to check the time. He keeps it loosely in his grasp, turning it over and over, a gesture of restless uncertainty more than a need to keep the piece of technology available.

The front section of the shop is composed of tables covered in linen and understated damask cloths, matching napkins with silver, gold, and wooden rings set at each of the four stations. There isn’t a doily or slip of lace to be found. John realizes the tables are set at even intervals, giving the clientele enough room to move about, but still maintain a look of subdued sophistication. Each table has its own special set of china and tea ware, but the sets are unlike anything he’s seen before.

John’s mother had been something of a cup and saucer collector, with the usual array of dainty cups and saucers, images of roses, peonies, and sometimes the occasional tulip, hyacinth or lilac making it into her collection. They invariably had gilt edges or frothy scalloping, but John was always too wary to touch them, and his mother had a single, full tea set in silver plate from when she married John’s father. The sets before John now are more refined, all clean lines and subtle elements, an artful turn of handle here or single piping in one exotic shade, there.

John hadn’t thought of his mother’s set in ages, and thinning his lips out, he swallows thickly, taking a few more steps to his left. His hand is clenching, but he wills it to relax, and looks over the floor to ceiling shelves of equally distinctive design. They form open-fronted boxes, and are made of teak or an equally dark wood, the crown moldings and hardwood floor beneath his feet, matching the scheme. Square black canisters with every conceivable type of tea are set on the niches, the lids are round with a border of a thin stripe of pink, and each one has a hand-written label that resembles parchment. A wooden sign designates sections of black tea, green tea, white tea, the whole lot. It mirrors the counter in length, and John can’t imagine even him ever needing that much tea in one lifetime. He hears a door open behind him, but he’s still figuring out exactly how many different types of tea are being sold, finally just multiplying the number of columns and rows that make up the shelving unit.

“Ah, Mike. There you are. I have a selection ready for you to look over.” The first cup and saucer set in front of Mike is of another design that is simple elegance and unique, but barely makes a chink of sound when set together for the doctor to consider. “This one is actually from an upcoming company in New York. Mouth-blown borosilicate glass, it’s shatter-resistant and resistant to high heat. It is the same glass used in making beakers, test tubes and other chemistry equipment. This is the clear, with no color infused in the glass, but I also have it available infused in sapphire blue, currant red, daffodil yellow, viridian green, and a smoky quartz.” The voice is cultured, baritone, and the crisp statement makes it clear that the man speaking knows his product.

Turning around to where Mike is, John is cut short by the owner’s appearance, and that voice. Somewhere around six feet in height, and probably not much over twenty, the man behind the counter is nothing like John would have expected. His tailored black suit and blush-colored shirt say custom, but he isn’t wearing a tie or cufflinks, and there is somehow an effortless effect about it. The fingers that carefully set out the first of Mike’s choices are slim and elegant, obviously manicured. With the set down on the counter, his hands remain aloft, wrists turned in an outward gesture, and his fingertips partially bent as if he is about to change the position of the wares in front of him. The right hand lifts toward his lips, which John realizes consist of a ridiculously defined cupid’s bow at the top, and rounded fullness at the bottom. His hair is a maintained halo of dusky black curls, slightly too long for fashion, but in combination with his creamy complexion gives him the appearance of a classic statue. The young man’s eyes slant, and whereas John initially thinks they are also grey, he takes an unconscious step or two forward and sees that they’re in fact practically opalescent, caught in a shift from grey to green to blue and flecked here and there with amber. Set above the most sculpted cheekbones John can imagine ever seeing, the dense lashes around them flicker, offsetting the lightness of their irises behind him. Focus darting John’s direction now, the tap of a fingertip against that bottom lip ends quickly, the man’s head tilting to the side as he regards John.

“Afghanistan or Iraq, Doctor?” There is a straightforwardness to his approach, that after the examination John has given of him, leaves the physician slightly nonplussed.

“I’m sorry?” John isn’t a stupid man, but his brain hasn’t had time to catch up with what is going on, and he noticeably checks Mike for explanation or introduction before turning his eyes back to the shop owner.

The latter is now restating his question, something about his air making it plain he hates to repeat himself, but he lowers his voice so it doesn’t carry quite so far and there is softness now about the look he’s giving John. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” The words have a punch of space between them that they lacked before, but that expression in his eyes isn’t pity. Mike hasn’t offered anything by way of clarifying, looking at the color choices that owner also provided examples of on a factory sheet, so that John is beginning to feel like a beetle pinned to a board.

“Afghanistan. How did you know?” Temporarily adrift, that’s what this is, and John is squaring his shoulders, matching the action with taking a wider stance. The cane is held with a death grip, but he isn’t offering any explanations of his own. At least, not on purpose. It’s not even close to just casually defensive.

If John is expecting a reassuring reply, he isn’t getting one for his trouble, because the shop owner points to the set he’s placed in front of Mike and resumes their business transaction. “I think that in a year or so, you’ll be seeing a lot more work from them. A good opportunity for the collector, if you’re interested, but I have others for you to see as well.”

It’s only then that Mike quits his perusal of the goods in front of him, but it’s to Sherlock that he looks, and addresses his comment. “Old buddy of mine, John Watson.” There’s that pleasant smile on his face, but he continues with the shopping part of this expedition. “I’d like to see the rest. Not sure if this isn’t a bit too modern for Milly.”

“Of course.” There is a sharp break in between, but then as Sherlock turns to go back into the room he’d been occupying before, he glances to John long enough to thrust another question his direction. “How do you feel about the violin?” After which he disappears for another few seconds, returning only when he has two more possible choices in his hands. 

Still, once he’s back, the dialogue continues. "I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” With the new choices safely positioned on the counter, the man resumes, one arm across his midsection this time and the elbow of the other side fitted against it so his lips are half hidden by the return of those lengthy fingers. At least, until he suddenly fires another round of words at John. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Strangely, the way the words are said varies from the almost skittish glance he gives John, and the subtle flush of color that stains his cheeks.

Just as fast as this is said, the young man is back to speaking to Mike, just as briskly as before. “Now, these are from Bernardaud and Deshoulières, Eden and Dhara bleu patterns, respectively. More traditional, but they will add color to her existing collection.” The former was turquoise blue, with an overlay leaf and flower pattern in gilt, the motif inspired by 19th century designs. The latter, turquoise on top, but a deep plum on the bottom, the overlap in silver, light pink, and traces of copper creating a design that spoke of Indo-Persian ornamentation.

While this is going on, and not sure what else to do, John shifts a glance offside to the area behind where the tables were set. A grouping of settee and two clubs chairs around a coffee table, the items upholstered in black leather, piping the same shade of pink as on the tea canisters. There is a partially unfinished look about it, but John can’t quite figure out what is going on there, so he decides to try Mike again.

“You told him about me?” Then too, John has had time to evaluate the situation, and wants more information from the man he’s at least known for a couple of decades, before he speaks further to the younger man.

“Not a word.” Mike murmurs at first, delivers a quick appraisal to the two others, then taps the Eden pattern to give the owner his decision on the available sets that he’s seen thus far. “Anything more?”

Two questions at once, both aimed at the shop owner this time, the second one from John. “Who said anything about flatmates?” It’s not an accusation, though at first it appears the young man might be taking it that way, because he retreats a step or two in a direction that won’t take him to the stock in the back.

Oddly, it is John’s question that is answered first. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.” The last word is delivered with a pop of sound, and a smile that sits the fence between cautious and sly, but the man is gone again before John can ask anything else.

There is a dead silence while he’s gone, and John checks his phone once more, noting the time. He does another visual check of the front of the shop, but no one has come in, and he doesn’t try to sit down at any of the chairs.

Upon reemerging from the back, the owner has one final set to place between Mike, this one much more ornate than the others. “Recroy by Royal Limoges. Recamier shape with gold incrusted design, cobalt blue and hand painted relief gold adornment.“ Mike looks taken aback by all the bands of gold alternating with the single stripe of bone china white and two of nearly midnight blue, but the shop owner has one last thing to add before he gives Mike time to consider.

“That shade of blue is harder to find these days, but there is something to be said for tradition, and that color…” He leaves off, lashes flickering against the changing verdigris of his own eyes to meet John’s, which are roughly the same deep blue as in the set in front of Mike.

John is on the verge of saying something in response, but nothing is forthcoming, and he’s not even sure to whom the description was being given. He’s interrupted before anything spills out, and it’s from that same clipped baritone as when they entered the shop.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock, after my class is over.” With that, the owner seems to be forgetting John entirely, all attention paid to Mike as the man from Barts nods and chooses the Eden pattern after all.

The owner of the shop doesn’t bother with the other items, balancing the saucer with its matching cup on the very tips of his fingers, and lightly conveying the set back to the unseen room where he keeps his stock. Mike doesn’t attempt to strike up anymore conversation with John, who is now shifting from side to side, trying to keep his physical and mental balance on par with one another–and not having much luck with either.

When the shop owner returns, he’s almost delicately carrying the box that holds the gift for Mike’s wife, the box a matte black with a simple thin pink line down the center, matching the canisters of tea on the walls. He rings the transaction, and finishes the sale before placing the box in matte black bag with pink handles, the receipt clasped in Mike’s hand before the men seem to recall John is even in the room.

It’s at this point that a woman rushes into the shop, a cup in her hand, and a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. John watches as she puts down one of the cups on the only surface where it wouldn’t leave a lasting mark, a small marble slab by the register. She’s wearing her medium brown hair in a low ponytail, a cream-colored sweater with cherries all over it, and a pair of trousers the same shade of brown as her hair. She darts an anxious look to John, but smiles. “Hello, welcome to The Study.”

“Ah, Molly, there you are. If you’ll just put these away, we only have one appointment tonight, so it should be a quiet evening.” The shop owner issues her a quick smile, waiting for her to come behind the counter, before changing their positions so he’s sliding out toward where John and Mike are. She’s touching his arm, and hastily glancing to Mike and John before giggling about something, and hurrying to put her bag in the stockroom.

If Mike notices, he’s still not communicating as such, and John speaks up after seeing the touch between the two younger people. “Is that it?”

"Is that what?” The owner, and now all of that considerable focus is aimed directly at John, but he looks just the smallest bit bruised in feeling. He sidles up next to a coat rack in the corner of the room by the display window, and take out a business card and pen from one of the pockets. The card is flipped over, and he scratches a number onto the back, offering it to John.

Mike is by the door, sorting out the receipt in his billfold, and making sure his keys are in his pocket. The briefcase is in his other hand, but he stops by the tables, and he’s definitely not looking at what is going on between John and the shop owner. In fact, after gauging him, John is sure it’s a pointed refusal to watch whatever is playing out here.

Getting more and more irritated, now John is carrying on like he hasn’t noticed at all, not yet taking the business card. “We’ve only just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?”

"Problem?” The owner of the shop is arching a brow, but he genuinely doesn’t appear to be sure, and Mike is already walking outside, checking his own mobile as he stands in wait out on the sidewalk.

John smiles a bit in disbelief, trying to ward off the quandary that has been reigning since he entered, and keeps a steady gaze on the posh man in front of him. "We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

The other man takes a moment, weighing his next words possibly, but when they do come it’s almost an onslaught of information. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” After he’s done though, his face is almost as blush in hue as his shirt, and his eyes drop to focus more on John’s shoes than anything else.

John’s mouth almost falls open, and he doesn’t even know how to respond to this vivisection of his life in a few short sentences. Once he sees the anxious behavior from the younger man, he catches himself from shuffling awkwardly, and the hold on his cane loosens. He’s silent though, and that lack of responses stretches on a moment or two longer than is comfortable for either of them.

In the end, it’s the shop owner that speaks first, but his words are quieter and he’s obviously being cautious about making eye contact with John. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” His hand had fallen back down by his side, but he extends it once again, longer fingers offering the card with the business information on the front. “My mobile number is on the back. I prefer to text, but...” He doesn’t seem to know what to say beyond that, and the color in his cheeks is only heightening the longer this goes on.

John thinks he’s figured this all out, finally, and a smile is just making its way up one side of his lips. “I see. Well, Sherlock, I will see you tomorrow evening.” He hangs the cane on the edge of one of the tables, lifts his phone, and punches in the numbers on his Contacts app. The card is pushed down into the front pocket of his forest green jacket, and his cane is wrapped in his the easy coil of his fingers again.

“Yes, tomorrow...then.” Sherlock is almost whispering at this point, and he’s pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, either trying to keep them from shaking or trying to appear more casual than John is guessing he actually is. Like a flash though, he leans to the left, opening the door for John. He still looks self conscious, and is avoiding direct eye contact, but John is smiling even more now.

Mike raises a finger in farewell before Sherlock disappears from view, the door shut behind them, and John turns to look at his old friend. Mike just smiles, and starts to walk in the direction of the tube. “Yeah. He’s always like that, and you always did have a way with the pretty ones.”

John shakes his head, but he looks more relaxed than he has in weeks, and starts laughing along with Mike.


	2. The Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John puts aside a few of his misgivings, with a mutually satisfying result.

“After my class is over” Sherlock had mentioned to John, leaving the former army doctor to consider over the course of the remaining evening, and all the next day, what course it was, and exactly how old his potential flatmate really was. Thanks to the confession from Mike after they’d left the shop, John felt he had a reasonably accurate read on the younger man, and it wasn’t as if John didn’t have his own store of experience to use in matters such as understanding communication complexity.

And sure, John could have just asked Mike outright while they walked to the tube or contacted him later that night to find out, but he’d decided against that. He didn’t want to seem a bit too eager about the situation, and not even the prospect of getting out of his drab beige bedsit would really cover it up.

Then too, John could have texted Sherlock, and asked. He almost did, twice. Thumb press on the back button erased the messages before he could bring himself to press Send. Sherlock seemed like a person that had a full life, plenty to do, while the offer of the further contact information was there for John in form of card and in his Contacts, he knew it was possibly just in case he was late to their rendezvous.

“Christ, John. It’s not a rendezvous. You’re just going to look at a flat.” John had barely stomached dinner after their meeting or breakfast and lunch today, so he was forcing himself to make something in his pitiful excuse for a kitchenette as he waited for a reasonable time to leave for the appointment. He’d been dressed for it an hour already, having taken more care than usual in his shower and shave, and wincing a bit at the fact there was nothing much to be done with his hair. It was slightly too long for his military background, but not long enough to alter.

“Nothing like those curls…” It wasn’t the first thing he’d spoken aloud to himself since moving in, but it was by far the most distracting. When it happened, he’d braced his hands on the side of the sink, and given himself a mental shake for it. “You’re acting like a man half your age.” But, now that he was in the kitchen and waiting for the water to bowl for his pasta, he was struggling with the rendezvous idea.

The decision to search the internet for information about Sherlock had already led John to the shop’s website, where John quickly read through the About page, which really did turn out to be more about the shop than the owner. In fact, the owner’s first name wasn’t even listed, leaving John to wonder if Sherlock just really wanted his privacy or it belonged to someone else. To John at least, there seemed to be an incongruity with Sherlock’s appearance, his obvious intelligence, and working in a shop. His instincts told him there was a story to it all, and until he’d been shot at least, his instincts had generally served him well. 

The second hit from his search had given him Sherlock’s own site, The Science of Deduction. A blog, it read much like the manner Sherlock had fired off personal facts at John. How could one determine a person was an airline pilot by their left thumb? As a left-handed person, John had looked at his own thumb, and been disconcerted that he wasn’t sure if it was due to a flattening of tissue, certain marks or if more pilots happened to be left-handed. He’d even searched and found a flight simulator program, but that hadn’t helped overmuch. Still, it was easier to come to one of these conclusions based on anatomy than it was for him to get anywhere close to figuring out how a person’s tie could indicate they were a software designer. There had been a forum on the site, and it appeared Sherlock answered questions about crimes of all things. Which just led to more questions for John.

The water had finally reached its necessary temperature, and John was breaking apart the thin pieces to get them settled, but his brain was on a loop. Mike had clearly intended John to have an interest in Sherlock, but John had no clue how far that interest was meant to go. Again, John was thinking about how active Sherlock seemed to be, and it inevitably led to his eyes fixing on the cane hooked on the back of the only chair in the meager flat.

“It’s just a place to live, John. Mike didn’t want you stuck here indefinitely, and maybe he thought you could help. It’s just sharing the rent.” The unspoken part, the part that would have caused his voice to crack and made his eyes turn in disgust from the cane, was about how Sherlock was young, beautiful, had so much going for him, and John was exactly the opposite-old, weathered from experience, too much sun, pain, and had nothing to show for any of it, not even a job. Self-loathing was welling up, and despite the care John had taken to get ready for the appointment, he limped his way over to the desk and picked up his phone. Before he could change his mind again, he sent the message.

Don’t think I can make it. Thank you for the offer, and I hope you find a good flatmate. The university must be full of other young people that need housing or will after the Winter Break. - John W.

John was sucking in a breath, holding it, and fighting off a wave of nausea. it was done, and he shook his head at his own foolishness, limping back over to switch off the burner on the stove. The water promptly stopped bubbling, and something about that chemical reaction led to his releasing the breath. The noodles sagged miserably in the bottom of the pot, but he pushed the button to turn off the light above the stove, and limped back to his bed to stretch out. The mattress sagged under his weight, so he swung his legs up, stretching out with a view to the ceiling. It had been painted over at some point, but he could just make out the brown stain from water that had damaged the plaster, and it just reminded him of tea. Tears were prickling at the back of his eyes, so he shut them, forcing another few breaths to stabilize his mood. It was then that his phone let him know a return message had come in, and he waited a moment before daring to look at it.

We can meet another night, if tonight is inconvenient. As I told Mike, I am difficult, and I really didn’t want to share the flat with someone young, from university. -SH

John wet his lips, clamping down on the bottom one with his teeth, considering exactly what the message said outright, and if there was possibly some subtext beneath it. Not “someone young, from university” didn’t discount someone young that wasn’t there. Sherlock likely could have placed an ad or found someone else in his age group, so it didn’t seem that it was only the university part that he was avoiding. John was still contemplating this when the next message came through.

I will be there in 20 minutes. Mrs. Hudson is the landlady, and she is there already, knew you were to be coming. -SH

John sat up now, raking a hand through his short hair, and swearing to himself. It wasn’t just Sherlock that had expected his arrival, but a lady as well. After weighing this new information against the likelihood he might make a fool of himself in front of them both, John forced his misgivings to the back of his mind, and sorted his hair with a few more quick skims of his fingers through the strands.

Be there soon. -JW

Normally, John didn’t add his initials to his texts, but he also wasn’t going to take the time to analyze why he’d chosen to do so this time. Reaching for his cane, keys, and wallet, and slipping the latter into his jacket pocket, he threw the garment over his arm. The flat locked up, he was determined to make up for lost time, and hurried as much as his ailing leg would allow.

0o0o0o0

Forty minutes later, John was standing in front of a black door with the plate numbers displaying 221B. Bit odd that, but he lifted the knocker, and waited to see who would be inviting him. The door revealed an older woman in a plum-colored dress, her face showing lines that spoke of years of laughs and deep thought, the lines now transforming as she smiled at John.

“You must be Dr. Watson. Please…come in. I’ve been doing some baking, and I’ll be right up with some muffins and tea, but Sherlock is already upstairs.” She’d said this all in a flurry, with hardly a breath taken, and drawn to one side so John could come through into the entryway. True to her words, there was flour on her hands, and she didn’t offer either of them to shake with John.

“Uh, yes. Thanks. Mrs. Hudson, is it?” Had to be, but better to ask, just in case there was another woman about the place on a regular basis.

“Yes, it is dear, but you must hurry.” She lowered her voice then, peeking up toward the landing a moment, before saying anything further. The coast was clear, and she leaned in toward John before sharing the next comments. “He’s on his way to a strop. Has spent two days trying to clean up, and he never cleans.” Her eyebrows lifted, and her kind eyes were aimed at John rather directly, obviously trying to get him to understand how significant this was. She waved a hand toward the stairs then, and closed the door, hastening back to her own flat on the floor level.

John wasn’t at all sure he understood the situation, but after only a short pause, he was working his way up the seventeen stairs to the open door of the flat in question. “Mr. Holmes?” Wrap of knuckles to let Sherlock know he was there, and he heard the sound of bare feet on the hardwood, Sherlock appearing from around the corner to his left.

“Sherlock, please, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock was still dressed in one of his immaculate suits, his hair tamed by product, but only just. The curls were moving slightly as he shifted backward, having come up in front of John in an almost crowding manner. His face made a series of expression changes too fast for John to read, but then he spun about and extended his hands outward to encompass the living room area of the flat. “So, this is…it.” He didn’t stop there though, and in what seemed to John like an anxious way, Sherlock gestured toward a worn-in damask chair of red, which sat across from a streamlined one of black leather and chrome. “I thought…that is…” There was a pillow with the British flag on it, which he lifted off the chair, his arms rounding over the opposite side of it as he pressed the pillow close to his chest.

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.” John’s eyes were surveying the room, the various layers of clutter and boxes, and he looked into the kitchen briefly. A microscope on the table, more clutter, more boxes, but it had all the amenities his kitchenette did not have. Focus shifting to the chair when Sherlock pulled the pillow out of it, he quickly assessed it, then lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s. “This could be very nice. Very nice indeed.” Clearly, Sherlock was ill at ease, and not sure how to go further with the conversation. Making sure his eyes were portraying the same warmth that was spreading itself through his chest, John smiled reassuringly to the younger man, then seated himself in the older piece of furniture. “Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out … Oh.”

The end of the remark brought his words up short, because Sherlock had suddenly interjected an explanation as he waited for John to seat himself. “Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in. Obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit…more.” He was saying this, but Sherlock’s right hand was lifting from the clutch of the pillow, and he was sinking his long fingers into his curls to give them a harried tug. His lips opened and closed a few times, but he dashed forward to close his laptop, and straighten a few files by putting the pillow on the desk. He apparently then forgot the pillow entirely, as he began tapping his hands lightly together, eyes changing from the blue-green to a more stormy blue-grey once they were back on John. Glancing sideways though, he wasn’t in one place long, because he lifted a stack of mail and darted to the fireplace, stabbing the assortment of envelopes into the mantelpiece using a multi tool knife.

John kept his own council for a few moments, just studying Sherlock, trying to get a read on how to handle whatever was going on. The stab of mail drew his eyes to the the mantel, however, and he gave a lift of his cane to point at the most unusual object he’d seen thus far. “That’s a skull.”

“Friend of mine. When I say ‘friend’…” For just an instant, Sherlock appeared crestfallen, but he didn’t have time to say more than, “Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.” Double-backing to the comment about the price of the flat, as if doing so would draw John’s attention away from the human relic and back to the much more promising details of the flat.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson cleared the landing, coming in with a sprightly verve, a wooden tray in her hands. It had a tea set of pale yellow with bees in flight from their hive, and plate of muffins, just as she’d promised. Sorting it out on the side of the kitchen table, she pushed backward what looked like a freezer bag with solid matter inside, the contents releasing a dark reddish brown liquid that sloshed with her rearranging. Peering at John quizzically, she pointed above stairs. “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

Sherlock had becoming curiously still since the landlady’s arrival, the explanations and level of eyes toward John both ending, his hands tucking back behind him. He still looked just as sharp in that bespoke suit, but whatever John might have told him took a detour, as the doctor gave a reply and direct of his darker eyes to Mrs. Hudson. “Of course we’ll be needing two.”

“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here.” She dropped her voice then, more or less using an ineffective whisper to tell John, “Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.“ Her right cheek dimpled with her delighted expression, but she must have noticed the change in Sherlock, because she touched his arm gently. “Do try to keep the thumbs from spoiling this time, dear.” Waving her hands about then, she ran her eyes over the improvements to the room, and bade them her version of goodbye. “I’ll leave you to it then, shall I? Dr. Watson, so nice meeting you. Make sure you try the tea. It’s a special blend Sherlock makes for me, due to my bad hip. It might help you as well…” She did a skittering action toward the cane John had hooked on the arm of his chair, then disappeared back to her dwelling downstairs.

“John” was all he got out to the woman after her explanation, and an uneasy breath drawn into his lungs after she left. In her wake, the flat was pin-drop quiet, lingering that way until John got a clear head, and finally sought out Sherlock’s face once more. “Right…Well, Sherlock…you may call me John too, of course. Flatmates being in one another’s space all the time, after all.” Leaving his reaction to Mrs. Hudson’s comments to the wayside, he was back to trying to put Sherlock into a calmer frame of mind.

At first, Sherlock’s eyes only had that apprehensive look in them, and he opened his mouth to say something that didn’t make it out. Brightening, however, he did manage to find his voice. “So, you’ll take it on then? The…room…being in the flat, I mean.” He wasn’t in a frenzy, but he didn’t keep eye contact with John long either, and again the doctor thought there might be some subtext under the more obvious conversation going on.

“Yes, I think I could be quite comfortable here.” John didn’t add “with you” into the words, but he was trying to get it into the inflection of his voice, lifting the edges of his lips to give the words a further measure of meaning. Pressing a hand against the chair of the arm then, John gained his feet, and gestured to the tea and muffins Mrs. Hudson had brought them. “If you’ll pour a cuppa for me, and put a couple of those muffins on a plate, I’ll just go inspect the room. I don’t have a lot to bring over, but I want to see if there is anything else I might need.” In a way, it was a method for getting nourishment, since his appetite was back. In a secondary way, it was a gauging of sorts, John interested to see what Sherlock would do with this direction.

“Ah, yes…Dr. Watson. I put…That is…” Sherlock must have caught himself using the more proper title, but he didn’t change it as he went on with his original explanation. “I put clean sheets on the bed, and there are towels, flannels, and an assortment of…products…in the loo. Help yourself…to…anything in the flat.” Not waiting to see what John had to say about this or how his face would alter either, Sherlock was back in a blur of motion, working out the necessary steps to ensure the cuppa was suitable.

That being the case, he didn’t see the deeper smile that etched into John’s features, the loosening of his shoulders or the way his eyes took on a mere moment of heat before he began his trek up the stairs to the room he’d be using. It was fine though, because Sherlock did hear the way John’s steps did not falter or slow, and the young man paused just long enough to confirm that the cane was still hanging onto the arm of the chair. With no one to witness it, he didn’t bother to conceal the hopeful smile on his lips or the color that seeped into his cheeks. Whatever it was that he whispered, that was also for no one to witness, but it was something along the lines of “Anything at all, Sir.”


	3. Spaces for John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John attempt to get to know one another better, a curve thrown in the mix that leads to John not being sure he was reading the situation correctly, and Sherlock being a pining gay baby. (Bit of angst, but a happier outcome is coming.)

After the disarray of the main room downstairs, John wasn’t too certain what he’d find in the bedroom on the upper level. The door was open, as was the window across from it, letting in a breeze and airing out the space. The drapes at the window were a light mocha in color, but a moment was all that passed before John realized they weren’t mimicking the dreadful beige of his bedsit. Walking across the dark mahogany hardwood of the floor, his fingers lightly touched on the Greek key design that formed the embroidered border in a darker shade, with a hint of red to work with the furniture that made up the space. It was a subtle touch, and as John looked around the rest of the room, he noticed that it was one of many.

The sheets were of the deeper red shade too, the colors of the border now alternated so that the border design on them was the lighter one of the drapes. The bed had been outfitted with four pillows, matching cases crisp, and the duvet that stretched out over the remainder of the bed likewise sporting the key theme. The headboard of the bed slatted, a simple design with the foot board a lower version of the same, both with metal plates attached to the ends to display the matching key. The dresser sat alongside the wall to the right of the room, and he’d passed it on his way to the window, but gave it a moment or two of inspection and saw that the hardware was also composed of the squares from the fabrics and bed. It had six standard drawers, a small closet was situated between the end of it, and the corner of the room. Just large enough for a few suits, a fact that brought on a hardening of John’s features. He only saw it when he looked across to the wall opposite, where a square, full-length mirror reflected back his posture and closed features.

“Suits. Won’t be needing those.” The smile that set on his lips was a tight one, and he knew it, shaking his head as turned away from his own image. An aged steamer trunk was positioned at the end of the bed, the top flat, good for setting items on if he ran over the surface area available on the dresser. Curious, however, he loosened the strap that was unbuckled from the front, and lifted the lid. Spare bedding, another set identical to the ones already outfitting the bed, but this time in chocolate. Lifting one of the pillowcases, he ran his fingers over it, as he’d done with the drapes. Cotton, but the best quality money could buy, of that he had no doubt. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure the room was done up well, and the bitterness washed itself off his face as he sat the case back in with the rest. Two more pillows were inside, a simple square one, and another of bolster style. He brought those out, dropped the lid, and sorted them against the standard pillows to finish the picture. A lingering backward look along the walls established for him that a series of antique maps and anatomical illustrations had been similarly framed, removing any feeling of the space being unkept or only suitable for a night or two.

Not wanting to keep Sherlock waiting, John made his way back downstairs, his gait off as he reached the bottom. Confirmation of his suspicion came as he limped into the main room, seeing the cane where he’d left it over the chair arm, the same chair retaken as Sherlock looked up at him across the tray he was carrying into the room.

“I hope everything was satisfactory, Dr. Watson. I wasn’t sure of your needs, but if there is anything I missed, please…let me know.” The younger man set the tray down on the table by John’s new designated area, turning the handle so that it sat to the left, and offering cup and saucer to John with only a hint of nerves accompanying the action. He did glance to John, but that was all it was, opalescent green-blue shifting to a greyer shade as he avoided direct eye contact for longer. Easy to misconstrue that Sherlock’s focus was entirely set on the tea items, the cup and saucer decorated with a black map of the twin islands of their home, a thin rim of gold and red crown on the inside edge of the cup, preventing the white china from being at all plain. John could just detect, however, that Sherlock was on alert. ‘Prettily pensive‘, words that passed through his mind as he watched the younger man.

The flag pillow was back in the chair, and John positioned it better to support his lumbar area, only then taking the set held out by Sherlock. The younger man’s fingers curled in against his palms, clenching before he turned away to sit in the chair of leather and chrome. John didn’t think the action had anything to do with being made to wait while he sorted himself out, but he sat in study a bit longer. Sherlock had his own set of tea items, but unlike John, he was on the edge of his seat and didn’t appear to be making himself comfortable. ‘Eager’ another passing thought for the doctor, followed by a more derisive one for his own condition, and why Sherlock should care what he wanted.

Clearing his throat, he used a solid nod, sipping at the hot liquid in a test. It was just as he liked it, and he started to ask how Sherlock had ascertained that, but decided to leave it for now. “Now, that is how you make tea. Thank you, Sherlock. And…yes…the room is perfect.” Before giving Sherlock a chance to answer, he did have one question. “Do I have Mrs. Hudson or you to thank for the linens?”

“Most people don’t know that a good cup isn’t just about the leaves or how long you let the tea brew, but also the temperature of the water. Different teas require their own temperature. The best leaves in the world won’t be palatable if you don’t use the right water temperature.” Sherlock rattled all this off, and then sucked in a breath past his teeth, waiting to gather his courage apparently for the more difficult topic for which he didn’t have a previous background knowledge. “I…that is, Mrs. Hudson suggested quantities, but I purchased the items. You will have looked in the trunk of course, and found the extra pillows. I wasn’t sure if…well, if you would want them on the bed all the time, but…they might serve a useful purpose at some point.” Apprehension clear, Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered, cup shielding his lips as he turned it up to sip his tea.

“Well, I appreciate the gesture. I didn’t have a set that would have fitted the bed, and it will be good to have a larger area, again. I put the pillows on, if you’re wondering.” He took another drink from his cup, watching Sherlock’s every gesture and facial expression, the latter of which ran through a series of transitions before John went on. “Let me know how much the whole setup costs, so I can reimburse you.” Concealing his own lower face with the cup, he let his eyes narrow, then drift focus so he wasn’t pinning Sherlock with his gaze.

“Oh.” Sherlock seemed startled, shaking fingers putting his cup and saucer on the round table to his left, then resting them at the top of each thigh. “I wouldn’t want you to…pay me back, Dr. Watson. The room would have needed…a few things, no matter the tenant.” He didn’t seem to know how to go on, and a head tilt was paired with his shifting back on the chair slightly, an attempt at comfort that didn’t naturally pair with the part of lips that were not summoning anything else to add.

John let that subject rest, attempting not to let his eyes fixate on that bottom lip that was just then being met by the press of Sherlock’s own teeth. Shifting enough to put his own tea items down, and lengthening one arm along that of chair, he rested the other on his elbow. Running his fingers under his own bottom lip, he let there be a short interval of quiet, but not one long enough to stretch into something that would only add to Sherlock’s anxiety level. Still, John had to get his own footing, because it felt like they were on some sort of precipice right now.

“Listen, I am going to be doing a bit of job hunting, now that things are sorted. Work in a clinic or the like, so I can keep that Dr. title, but you really may call me John.” He’d tried this before, and he knew Sherlock hadn’t forgotten it, could tell the younger man was sharper than that. Giving it one more go, before he let the form of address matter rest along with the one of refunding Sherlock for the bedroom items.

“Work?” The way Sherlock said it, and the sudden skittish air about him was enough to draw John’s eyebrows upward. “I thought…I mean…” The young man had shifted his hands together, and now they were clasping and twisting about in his lap, thumbs pressing into his palms as his breathing caught in a hitch. "Yes. Yes…alright, Si…” Lips pressing flat, the cupid’s bow disappeared, a frown dragging his eyebrows low as he looked offside toward the floor to his left.

Sherlock didn’t say what he thought, and John lifted his chin an increment higher, focus pinging from each of Sherlock’s facial features to the way his hands fidgeted, and the obviously troubled tension keeping his shoulders taunt. Once he’d gathered what he needed, John continued his explanation. “Bills to pay, and well…a man needs a profession. Or, I do at any rate. Can’t just loiter around here, all day, every day.” Left shoulder raising into a shrug, he tried to probe a little further into the details of his flat mate’s life. “So, university then, for you. What are you studying?”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he drew in some air, and although he wouldn’t meet John’s gaze, he nodded once the older man explained his stance on working. His fingers ceased their high-strung twisting, flattening to his thighs again, and he turned his head so at least that was directed John’s way. “Chem…chemistry. I’m finishing my graduate work.” Looking past John then, he was filling in information about the kitchen. “The small refrigerator. It has my experiments and samples. Mrs. Hudson…well…she thought it might be better if I didn’t have thumbs in the regular refrigerator.” Finally, the stormy shade of grey left Sherlock’s eyes, and they fixed on John, the defiance creeping in a marked contrast to what had been there before.

It was a strange answer, and John almost said something about the thumbs comment, but the sudden shift in Sherlock’s manner drew an adjustment from John. He’d been on a battlefield with men similar in age to Sherlock, young men trying to come across as braver than they were, guarding their faltering dignity as much as any station where they had been assigned. A situation of two men in shared territory, but it didn’t matter that he’d not been the first one there to stake a claim. If he was correct, he’d have an entirely different stake to claim anyway. “Right, well. As long as I don’t have to worry about fingernails in my fry up, we should be fine.” He smiled, making sure it was pleasant and his posture was still easy, but there was a definite bit of steel in his eyes.

Point coming across, Sherlock’s pupils dilated, a deer in the headlights expression transforming him yet again. “I understand.” He nipped at his lower lip with his teeth, and touched at the collar of his pale lilac shirt, his neck exposed where the upper buttons had been left undone. It was a fashion he seemed to prefer, if this occasion and the one in the shop, were anything to go by. Gaining some courage from just a glance at the now cold cup of tea, he darted eyes back to John. “I can cook. I mean…Mrs. Hudson says I eat like a bird…which really doesn’t make any sense, because everyone knows birds eat a great deal, but well…I don’t eat very much, and sometimes I…Well, but I will make sure there is dinner waiting every night. For when…for when you come home from work.” He looked a bit deflated in how that had all tumbled from his lips, and they were parted when he stopped, but he was risking meeting John’s eyes again in what was obviously an attempt at approval.

“That really isn’t necessary, but I’m not usually a man to turn down a good meal, and you appear to know your way around a kitchen.” John was going for an easy comradery, at least for now. Approach, he was all about it currently, and decided to take another firm, if careful, step. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit young to be a graduate student. Graduate everything else, early?” Yes, it was time to determine exactly what he was working with or at least as much as possible.

Sherlock’s skin went bleach white, which was really a feat, considering his normal degree of pallor when he wasn’t blushing. “I did, yes. Graduate early. I started university at sixteen.” Which left out the crucial detail of how old that made him now, and he didn’t seem to be racing to explain that aspect.

What John would have said was cut short by the pounding of feet on the stairs outside the open door, and the sudden appearance of another young man in the room. He was tall, even more so than Sherlock, and a great deal more solid compared to Sherlock’s willowy frame. His strawberry blonde hair was cut to corporate standards, the eyes seeking Sherlock a shade of dense green, and they lit up when he found his target. Hastening in, he didn’t see John at first, and bumped Sherlock’s shoulder with his hip as he sat down on the arm of the chair. It was plainly intentional, and done with enough force that Sherlock rocked sideways once, his eyes throwing a worried look to John as the other young man finally noticed the doctor seated across from Sherlock. “Oh, hello. You must be Dr. Watson.” Leaning forward, the blonde offered his hand, John shaking it with a nod.

“Yes, sorry. I don’t…” John managed to get out, throwing a questioning look between the two substantially younger men seated across from him. He forced down the constriction that almost surfaced in his posture, but couldn’t quite keep it from his face. If he’d let himself think about it, he’d have known it was giving something away to the very observant one of the pair.

“Dr. Watson, this is Victor Trevor. We met at university…” Sherlock was gently smiling, but whatever else he intended to say was swallowed up by Victor’s enthusiastic nodding, and yet another interruption from his cohort.

“Yes, my dog bit him, but he hasn’t held it against me.” He jostled Sherlock with a press of his knuckles to the slighter man’s upper arm, then carried on with equal energy. “Turns out we’re both in chemistry, so we’ve been running around ever since.” He twisted about then, arm circling the other young man’s shoulder, tugging Sherlock toward him. “Anyway, we’re late…Come on, ‘Lock. If we don’t leave in the next five minutes, we’ll miss the opening.” Popping up to his feet then, he nodded to John. “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson.” He waved lightly, then pointed down the stairs. “I’ll catch a cab, ‘Lock.” Off he ran, not waiting to catch whatever John or Sherlock said, the door downstairs heard slamming in a way that left a strained silence in its wake.

“Trevor and I…” Sherlock started, flare of distress getting a hold on him again, renewing the need to have his fingers twist about one another as he stood up. “It’s just that…we met, and…Well, you see we had prior plans for the theatre, and I was about to say when…”

John cut him off at that, waving his hand to show he didn’t require an explanation. “It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine.” Grasping the cane by curved handle, he also stood up, but didn’t linger to regard the younger man. Stepping to the side, he aimed the end of the cane toward the door. “You better get a move on.” He coughed once, then went on. “I’ll just go clear out my things, and see you tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.” Probably a bit too pointed, the way he didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, the hand not on his cane curling into a fist by his thigh.

“Umm…yes, I…I see.” And Sherlock did, for of course he noticed the change in atmosphere that had occurred as soon as Trevor entered the room, and the alteration of cool politeness that John was exhibiting now. Letting his hands drop, Sherlock collected his coat off the rack, draping the heavy Belstaff over his light frame and wrapping his pale neck with a matching scarf of woven blue. “Good…good evening D…” He swallowed a thick lump, and then hastened down the staircase, another slam resounding up the stairwell.

The absence was a tangle thing, and John held his breath in the increasing tightness of his chest, running his eyes along the various cluttered elements in the room with the determination of a man seeking something to keep from shutting down. If he kept his mind occupied after all, he wouldn’t have time to think about what had just happened, but despite all the unique items in the space with him, nothing was enough. “You’re a damn fool, John Watson.” The skull on the mantle peered back at him, eye sockets dark and teeth bared, not saying otherwise. John shook his head, and closed the door behind him, limping down the stairs to go take the tube back to the bedsit.

0o0o0o0

John spent his final night in the stripped room, trying not to dwell on how few things had to be removed to go with him, to return the location to its state before his occupation. Pouring out the noodles and water from his aborted dinner attempt, he refilled the saucepan, and let that water boil until it was ready for another drop of pasta. When it was done, he didn’t bother with sauce, just mixed in some dry basil and butter to keep the noodles from tasting quite so flat. Not that his palate cared, and it all tasted like dust in his mouth, even the beer he used to wash it down not doing anything to refresh him. Washing the few dishes he’d used, he wiped them dry, and added them to the single box of supplies from the kitchenette and bathroom.

When he changed into the t-shirt and pajama bottoms to lie down in the twin bed alone, he rested his hand against his stomach, huffing at the feel of extra weight at his midsection. Unable to stop himself, he mentally compared that against the very fit physique shown by Victor’s tailored green button down, and the even more trim figure of Sherlock. He caught himself from wandering down the road of pointless consideration of the dark-haired young man further, but it didn’t end the litany of reproachful comments his brain was making about himself.

“Christ.” Giving up on sleep, he limped the few steps to the desk, and took his laptop off the top of the stack boxed to his side. Sitting down, he booted it up, and stared at the blog that was basically an empty slate in front of him. Just a smattering of entries, him noting that nothing ever happened to him, a comment from military buddy Bill, two from his own his sister, Harry, and one from his therapist to ask why he missed an appointment. His fingers curled and flexed over the keyboard, and although nothing immediately sprang to mind as correct for making accessible to the public, he did input a short entry so he could say he’d done it.

30th January - My New Flatmate

Ran into Mike Stamford yesterday, and went to one of the local shops with him. He introduced me to a young man in need of a flatmate, so I went around this evening, and had a look at it. It’s pretty decent actually. Sherlock had already moved in, so it was a bit of a mess, but that’s actually a nice change from this place. Going to work on the job hunt, soon.

Saving the entry, he left it at that, knowing that to type out his thoughts and impressions of his new flatmate would be to court disaster. In his own mind though, he was cognizant of what would have been written: Intelligent. Cautious. Sensitive. Angelic, and at that, he forced his brain to shut down, clicking the X to close the browser window.

Taking out one of his DVDs from the box, he fitted the movie into the drive, letting it go to the menu. Option choices, he chose the extended version, and went back to lie on the bed with the laptop resting beside him. This went on for the remainder of the night, sleep not found, but he managed to make it through several Bond films before changing, stashing the last few items into the box on the desk, and taking both boxes with him as he returned his key to the bedsit owner.

He took the tube as far as possible, then made slow progress down the sidewalk to 221. He’d planned on the job hunt after stashing his boxes in the bedroom upstairs, but was exhausted from the walk to the new address. Mrs. Hudson was on the phone when he knocked on the door, but she let him inside with a pleased smile and a wink, then darted back to her flat on the main level. Just enough energy to carry both boxes upstairs, John entered B flat, and found that Sherlock was not there. In point of fact, he didn’t see anything that told him whether Sherlock had made it back after going to the theatre with Victor, and John pushed the DVDs and books onto the shelves behind his chair with a bit more force than necessary. Separating the kitchen items from those of the loo, he quietly went about distributing it all, setting the box with his clothing into the emptier one. Once in his own room, he sorted out the pants, socks, jumpers, jeans, and everything else with military precision. A couple of sport coats, and several pairs of trousers to hang in the closet, he put the empty boxes on the floor beneath them. He was just pulling on the chain to shut off the light when he heard the unmistakable sound of Sherlock coming into the flat, hanging up his coat, and hastening to his room beyond the kitchen.

Determining his next course of action, John forced his shoulders back, and limped down the stairs with his cane in hand to sit down in the chair now designated as his. Newspaper on the side table where it hadn’t been before, he did a check of the date, and knew Sherlock must have placed it there for him to read. Better than an uncomfortable silence, so he took up the first section, and read over various headlines until Sherlock came into the space and stalled out just a step or two short of John’s chair.

“Oh, good. You found it. I mean…Well, I gathered that you read it, and I thought it might have listings that would assist in your search.” He spun about then, long legs making just three strides to reach the larger table by the couch, and then back as he offered a piece of paper with a list of clinics and their numbers. “And well, this…too. I took the liberty of screening for ones that were within two changes of the tube, ones that mention needing someone on a locum basis, and any that stipulated needing a doctor as opposed to a physician’s assistant. If these don’t work out, well…I can expand the search, of course.” It was more than clear that Sherlock had put time into the process, but also that he wasn’t sure how well received the information would be, and his gaze went from a fairly confident meeting of John’s to that anxious wavering.

Having closed the paper when the younger man began to speak, the end of his comments had John not bothering to reign in the look of surprise it brought on, and he licked his tongue at the corner of his mouth before drawing the paper from the marginally trembling fingers holding it. Sherlock’s hand danced backward, as if the paper had been on fire, but he didn’t leave. John set eyes on the list, going over the various notations that Sherlock had also put to the side of each one, as well as the ranking system he’d created. Still, not trying to read more into than he should, John nodded once as he lifted his eyes to Sherlock. “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate it.” There was a pause, and he wagered the younger man knew it all already, but he didn’t want the conversation to just end. “Got my things sorted here, so I can set out first thing in the morning. Seems you put a good deal of thought into this, and the rankings will help me, no doubt. The locum suggestion, that’s a good one. Ease these old bones into the fray again, hmmm?”

He hadn’t known what the words would draw out of Sherlock, but the younger man straightened up, and looked nothing, if not morally offended. “There is nothing wrong with your bones, and if they don’t realize that, then they don’t deserve you working for them anyway. You were obviously a skilled surgeon, and you have an exceptional manner in helping people that need reassurance. Besides, the limp goes away, when you don’t think about it, and the shaking in your hand doesn’t happen when your mind is occupied properly. Your therapist may not realize all of this, but…” The more he spoke, the more irritated he appeared, and his teeth were clenching as much as his hands by the time he was done. Color had risen high in his cheeks, and John progressively became more and more astounded as Sherlock went on, but the visual of it hadn’t been enough to shut Sherlock down. It was only after realizing what had poured out of him, all that stain of pink drained out of Sherlock’s face, doing so even more quickly than it had shown up. “I mean…” Tongue-tied, he made an exasperated sound, wore a very desperate expression, then hurried out of the room to his own down the hallway. The door wasn’t slammed, but it was definitely closed more briskly than was required.

0o0o0o0

Switching the lock into place, Sherlock sank down onto his bed, grasping his hair to roughly tug on as much of it as he could grab. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” The layout of his space meant that as he sagged down onto the navy-colored sheets, he could just see out of the window that sat positioned in the wall to the right of the door. The glass itself was textured, but the crank had been done enough so the brick wall of the flat across was visible. Not terribly interesting, all things considered, but he counted and recounted the bricks until he’d managed to get his breathing under control. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d pressed his teeth together, and as his hands drew off from his hair, he pushed at each side of his face to lessen the soreness. The cool of his fingers was pleasant against the heat of his face, but even after taking a few more moments, he wasn’t quite ready to brave going onto the common spaces where he might encounter John. Toeing off his Italian leather shoes, and dragging off his custom suit jacket, he didn’t pay much attention to where any of it ended up. Tipping sideways, Sherlock’s legs curled up toward his chest, his arms pinned between so he was as compact as he could possibly make himself. 

Lapses in time were not something that Sherlock normally worried on calculating, at least not if he was working in his Mind Palace to file away new information. The room about John had been expanded from just one, into a suite. So far, Sherlock had outfitted the main area with pooling drapes of light gold, papered walls a shade or two darker, and damask club chairs of a finer quality than the one in the living room, the upholstery done in shades of the gold, wine, and claret. Shelves with medical texts, and complete sets of first edition novels by Fleming, Dickens, and Whitman, with room for more once he had collected data beyond what he had now. Assorted low tables for John to set his laptop or the items for tea and food that Sherlock would prepare for him, throws and blankets in dark merlot, woven in various textures and weights to keep out the cold so John’s shoulder and leg didn’t ache, and a fireplace over whose mantel hung a portrait of John in uniform.

The bedroom had been given full-length windows, running wall to wall, the frames painted light grey against the darker paper of Prussian blue. Only one had been allowed to go without the windows, and that contained a double mirror flanked by walls papered in a light dove, the mirror on a track that meant it could slide over, revealing the bulletin surface behind it. An option for placing notes such as how the darker cobalt of John’s eyes had hints of grey and even brown threaded through, a combination Sherlock had never seen in anyone else. As well, there was a space for how the light from the windows in the main room had picked up all the different colors in John’s hair, too many for even Sherlock to count. It would necessitate further study, though as he rolled his forehead against the sheets, his mind stuttered on the one notable feature missing from the bedroom space–an actual bed. Curling even more tightly in on himself, the sheets went from cool to damp, a few tears leaking out of the corner of the young man’s eyes no matter how much he was trying to stop them. “There won’t be one. There just…it was stupid, stupid, stupid.”


	4. Dancing Around It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter this time. Headache all last week, and Friday evening I found out my apt complex messed up my lease agreement, so it needs to be sorted. Preparing though for a good chapter of Sherlock and John spending some further quality time, and John changing things up a bit.

For a short time after Sherlock’s sudden retreat, John continued to sit in his chair, considering what exactly it was that the younger man said, that had set off his own sudden reaction. It didn’t take long for John to decide it was to do with the therapist comment, and he hadn’t yet gotten around to asking Sherlock how he knew there was even a therapist to discuss, but there was now a more pressing concern.

As he sat there, callouses on his fingertips playing lightly against the fabric, John is working through the next stage of their interaction in the way only a military man that was also a doctor, could. Important to delve further, understand Sherlock on a level where John could have them both understand what was acceptable to the other, yet be relaxed in one another’s company on a consistent basis. Perhaps it shouldn’t be as hard as it was, but John wasn’t always the jovial and laid back man that most people saw on the surface. He knew Sherlock had already deduced that, was likely encouraged by it, and was potentially hoping for more of John’s calm, yet clearly comprehensive, direction. Just the idea of that alone was sending a sharp buzz through his spine, sending a tingle into his arms and legs that had nothing to do with wartime injuries.

A bit longer, just for planning his strategy, and John rose from his chair to make the short trek down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom door. He wasn’t trying to sneak up on him, throwing him further off, so it was just as well that he created a louder noise that strictly necessary on the hardwood, with the blunt tip of his cane adding a third element with each moment.

Wrapping his knuckles on the door, he made sure to keep any doubt out of his voice. “Sherlock, you’ve not done anything wrong. If you can hear me, I want you to know that.” He waited then, but heard no sound from the other side. Nor was the door opened or even unlocked. “I’m going upstairs for a spell. Probably take a short kip. When I’m done, we should have dinner.”

Still nothing, and after a few more moments of this, John left his place to make good on his words. When he did reach his room though, he left the door open, making it possible to hear if Sherlock called out in need of him or at least left his bedroom during the course of the evening. The directions had been given, and if Sherlock was awake to hear them, John was fairly certain the younger man would not disappoint.

0o0o0o0

An hour later, Sherlock roused from his stupor to the sound of music. He’d cried until there was nothing left, done final sorting of new John data into the suite in his Mind Palace, then been in a semi-dozing state. Worn out from work, school, and the anxiety eating away at his chest, he’d not been asleep exactly, but not far from it. Listening now, he knew the music was coming from upstairs. John’s room, his laptop judging by the quality, and Sherlock knew that music as well.

Righting himself in the bed, he gave a glance over his bedraggled clothing, the usual perfect lines all creased and beyond correction from just his hands alone. Quietly, oh so quietly, he went through his clothing, pulling out a pair of dark purple pants, the softest t-shirt he owned because he was fond of the color being cadet blue, striped pajamas bottoms to add to the illusion of more height, and his darker blue dressing gown. He changed quickly, then made progress just as quietly into the living room, padding lightly on his bare feet.

The notes were filtering down to his level as best they could with the limited technology of John’s older system, but Sherlock had a plan. Going through his account, the Complete Nocturnes brought up, he slotted his phone into the speaker deck. Waiting until the next opus would have taken too long, so he held his breath, choosing the Op. 27, No. 1 in C sharp minor. Pushing the line associated with the piece, letting the slightly dark notes fill the space, he couldn’t take the time to hold his breath in worry.

Just a moment to hear the notes from upstairs cease, Sherlock then went into his special domain, getting the kettle filled, but not yet starting it to boil. He was not dancing exactly, but his feet were testimony to his freer feeling as he moved around the room. Drawing assorted peppers, onions, and mushrooms from the refrigerator before dicing them to either add to an earthenware bowl along with garlic and ginger or to the largest of his skillets for dropping in hot oil, he paused a second time for only a breath or so. Nothing yet from upstairs, but more to do, here below. Strips of well-seasoned meat, Sherlock began to grill, alternating between the three groups until they were ready for combining. His dressing down swirled around him as he toed about the space, making dramatic arm sweeps as he sprinkled in a bit of sherry, and so absorbed had he become in his quest to create this first meal for John, he almost missed the arrival of the man himself.

It was only when he turned to start the kettle, that he saw John standing in the span between living and kitchen, arms folded and head tipped, a smile that even Sherlock could recognize as indication of fondness. For it was more than just appreciation, and Sherlock almost stalled out, seeing it directed at him. “I thought…the music, and your dinner, D…John.” There was the barest of winces as he said John’s name for the first time, fingers a little unsteady as he turned knobs and made final checks of the food, before collecting cups and saucers for their tea and dishes for their food. He didn’t try to make eye contact after that, and in fact was doing his best to avoid it.

John saw the wince for what it was, though the doctor was not sure why it had happened exactly. He let Sherlock go about the final actions to prep for the meal, then slid his arms apart to go toward the younger man. His gait wasn’t totally steady, but there were creases near his eyes as they warmly looked up at Sherlock, John taking one of his hands to lead him away from the stove. Sherlock was obviously puzzled, and the hand he still had made a fluttering gesture at the food. “But, it will get cold…and the kettle…” Now, he did look at John, but didn’t have more than a moment or two before a sturdy arm was around his waist, and he was being danced slowly backward from the kitchen. “I…oh.” His kaleidoscope eyes were changing colors, widening, the pupils also dilating.

“I’m not the best at this, wasn’t even when I didn’t limp, but dinner and dancing seems like a good idea.” John used his fingertips to indicate the direction he wished Sherlock to take, pressing more firmly for indications, and swirling the younger man around rather quickly in the floor space between chairs and coffee table. Sherlock followed quite naturally, like he was born to it, resting the formerly fluttering hand onto John’s shoulder. The dressing gown billowing behind him, and curls doing their own lesser sways as the pair made a few turns about the room.

“Yes, I think…That is, dancing is…good.” Sherlock managed eye contact for a few seconds, then darted his gaze elsewhere, biting on his bottom lip as John watched the various transitions on his face. He was fairly sure he could feel his own heart pounding, but John didn’t seem to be aware of the situation, because he only nodded and continued turning Sherlock about the floor until the opus ended. They were both a bit out of breath, some reasons shared, and John didn’t let Sherlock go immediately. In point of fact, it almost seemed more an afterthought as he cleared his throat, then stepped back from the shyly smiling young man in front of him.

“Well, I imagine you and Victor must do a lot of it, then.” Comment, not question, no bitterness or guile in the words, although his smile might have lessened some at the edges. Releasing Sherlock finally, John made one more turn, but it was to sit down in his chair.

Sherlock thought he could detect some resignation when he dared looking back at the doctor, and he just barely bit off a sound of disquiet. He didn’t really know how to respond, and chose instead to duck his head forward, then go more sedately into the kitchen to finish putting their meals on plates, collecting silverware, and preparing their tea. He could tell the mood was shifting back to the bad end of things, and maybe that is why he chose to use the heavy teacups with matching saucers, solid ceramic more than china, the embossing of frills around the edges being a bit more crudely designed than most of his pieces. There was a strength in them though, a solidness that he sorely needed, though in deference to John he brought out the older man’s food and drink first.

Sorting the various items on the table, he didn’t announce their arrival, since John hadn’t really begun doing anything in the interim. Perhaps it was dodging the issue, but the coltish young man skirted the boundaries of John’s chair to reach the kitchen for his own meal. John was already seated on the side opposite, before Sherlock took his own chair, back toward the wall with the yellow smiling face gazing at them both.

“So, I have to ask…smiley face and there…are those bullet holes in the wall, Sherlock?” John had a piece of buttered bread halfway to his mouth, hand suspended in time, as he changed perspective from the wall to Sherlock.

“Umm…yes. They are. There was an incident.” Again, Sherlock wasn’t making eye contact, but it was more because he’d become distracted by the outline of John’s lips with that hovering bit of bread poised directly in front of them. “We can get it patched if you like. I…I’ll go buy the things myself, after class…and then…it will look alright.”

John shook his head slightly, noticing the level of Sherlock’s attention, and slipped the bread into his mouth. There might have been longer taken to eat it than was necessary, but he was smiling at his young companion, swallowing before he verbally changed the plan. “No, no it’s fine. Curious, is all.” Shrug of his shoulder, he picked up his fork, piercing the first lot of grilled meat, peppers, and onions, and groaning more than a bit as the flavor hit his tongue.

Sherlock had been looking down by this time, and the groan almost made every circuit in his brain shut down. He had his own fork in hand, which wavered none too steadily, his tongue wetting his lips as he picked at his food to distract himself more than to get anything actually on the tines. “I hope…you like it.”

John laughed a little, which brought Sherlock’s head up fast, but the doctor wasn’t making fun of the behavior. “This is the first home-cooked meal I’ve had in ages, and I can’t remember the last time I had a better fry.” He was shaking his head then, like it was something remarkable, and more or less dove into the meal with the next few bites.

Sherlock could only smile, reassured that his efforts had not gone to waste, and work at eating at least some of the food he’d put on his own plate. About halfway through John’s meal, however, he pointed at Sherlock’s plate with his fork, “Eat. Mrs. Hudson is right about the birds, scientific or no.” The brunette frowned just a little, but instead of putting down his fork and possibly leaving the table, he forced himself to stomach another five or six bites to please John.

“How did you come into ownership of a tea shop, Sherlock? You don’t look like someone that was raised in the middle classes.” John had finished more than half his plate now, taken a few sips of his tea, and was watching Sherlock with eyes narrowed. His target stopped eating the forkful that had been about to make it onto Sherlock’s palate, the fork put down instead, and the younger man taking on a somewhat green tinge.

“I don’t own it. I mean…My older brother, Mycroft, he owns it.” Rolling pressed lips against one another, he took a deep breath, blanching as he explained further. “He thought I needed a diversion, something besides my education, to keep me out of trouble. I mean…I play the violin, and I…well, I do other things, but he thought it wasn’t enough.”

John wasn’t sure if there was more coming or not, and had the feeling something was being left out, but his question came out more direct than might be comfortable for the younger man. “And do you? …Need a diversion, to keep you out of trouble?” The doctor’s chin lifting, he was plainly assessing the situation for himself, as both a professional and as someone that had no reason to rely on the decision made by a man he’d yet to meet.

Summoning the courage he normally didn’t have in spades when the other man was present, Sherlock met John’s eyes. “Not a diversion, no.” Deepening the inflection on the longest word, he didn’t smile or act coy, and did manage to keep their eyes fixed on each other for a few moments. Maybe when he thought his point had come across, he lowered his, gathering plate and utensils to then sweep out from his chair to take them into the kitchen. The dressing gown wafting behind him, he rinsed his items, and then set them in the dishwasher to be more thoroughly cleaned.

As for John, he didn’t move so much as a centimeter until he did hear the dinnerware being put into the racks. Glancing at his own leftovers, and muttering “Damn fool” again to himself, he carried the remainder of his meal into the kitchen. Skimming the few food bits into the bin, he was going to rinse and sort as Sherlock had done, but the younger man took it off his hands before he could. It didn’t leave him off kilter though, because he had a reasonably good idea now, right where he stood–on several matters.

“I don’t know what you normally do after eating dinner, when you eat dinner…” He kept his tone light, and he noticed a heightened shift in Sherlock’s alertness that told him he was on the right track. “…but I usually read or watch some crap telly. Still, I have some films on DVD, if you’d be interested in some popcorn, and making an evening of it.”

Sherlock washed his hands after everything was in the racks, and as he was drying them, kept a partial outward turn toward John. “What sorts of films? I…I will make the popcorn, of course.” Why it should be a given that it was his job to do, he didn’t didn’t seem to question, and he was taking the task right out of the offering sort of suggestion John had made.

In this, John let him, “I have some Bonds films, a few horror movies, some Hitchcock, things like that. Do you like horror movies?” Wasn’t sure Sherlock would go in for that sort of thing, but the younger man nodded a little.

“Yes, I like the ones with suspense though, the ones I can try to solve before the actors.” His brow crinkling subtly, he did an offside glance to John, then turned away to open the top cabinet where a canister with packets of popcorn were stored. “Do want more tea or should I pour something else? I put more water in the kettle, but if you would like something else to go with the popcorn, I can do that. And do want salt and butter, just one or the other or maybe some caramel or I can make sweet, salty, spicy…I have honey and cayenne pepper, and some garlic…” He was rushing through his words again, and quit breathing at the end, pinning all the oxygen into his lungs.

“First of all, breathe Sherlock. You’re doing fine, and the meal was amazing.” The creases that formed near John’s indigo-colored eyes might have done more to cause the relaxing of Sherlock’s than the words, but time would tell. He certainly had no intentions of racing off, and not learning all he could about his remarkable young man.

“Secondly,” John went on, “something with more bite to it. I brought some scotch, which is over there in the cabinet, and the spicier version of the popcorn sounds promising. Help yourself to some of the scotch if you want it, make us up a batch of the popcorn, and I’m going to go take a shower. Then we can start.” John was taking due care to give rather specific instructions, waiting long enough for Sherlock to release the air, and take in more, before nodding to him. He wasn’t hovering, but he was detailing Sherlock’s attitude toward the change in his own, pleased with the results as the younger man’s skin took on a deeper flush, eyes like blue and green stained glass darting from place to place to make sure he knew where to get the items, and in what order he should perform the actions.

The smallest of nods from the young man in return, and Sherlock whispering, “I understand,” was enough for John to then do an about-face, and head for the stairs to reach his room. All in all, he was pleased with the result of the evening so far, and looking forward to the remainder of it. If there was that voice in the back of his head reminding him of Victor, well, it would have to be dealt with in his own way, but not right now.


	5. Things Can't Stay This Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that had some trouble with S4 of Sherlock, I've put a bit of an Easter egg into this chapter. John and Sherlock share a movie night, and watch the film, Stay. Clues about the similarities between the film and the oddities of S4 should be apparent, but if you're interested in seeing more for yourself, I suggest this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3BU3yECMqM

As soon as Sherlock was positive that John was upstairs getting his shower items and clothing, the younger man was in the kitchen working on the prep for the popcorn. Salt, paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, pepper, oregano, thyme, and cayenne pepper were all added to the large bowl, mostly in measure of ¾ teaspoon, and allowed to set while he put the popcorn in the microwave. It wouldn’t have normally been his method when making something for John, but he wasn’t sure how long it would take the doctor to come downstairs, and he wanted to be sure matters were underway. In point of fact, the popcorn had already finished when he heard John come downstairs and enter the bathroom, so he heated the butter in a saucepan rather than also making it in the microwave. Taste and presentation were important, even in so basic a dish, and Sherlock wanted to ensure John was pleased with his results. Also, it kept the younger man from having much time to fret over what would happen in the next few hours.

Once John was out of the shower, Sherlock drizzled the heated butter over the popcorn, gave it a few tosses, then did the same with the application of the spices. Two glasses of scotch were poured, because even though it wasn’t normally his drink of choice, he still needed more than just the wine from dinner to calm his nerves. Carrying everything into the sitting room on a tray, he sorted it out with napkins and water as well, standing by the coffee table until John appeared in the doorway and smiled about the array.

Inhaling, John nodded, “Smells good. Looking forward to trying something…new. Sit down, and I will get the DVD in.” He’d a feeling Sherlock would just hover, if he didn’t give him exact directions on course of action, and it would take a few minutes to get the disk inside the machine, start up, arrive at the menu, and take a seat himself. If he let that new suggestion hover in the air for Sherlock’s mental benefit, well that was a fair trade. As he worked at going through the DVDs, he heard the sofa leather make a quiet creak, yet not enough of one for a person really getting comfortable.

“Suspense, I think. Give your mind something to work on, and if you like that, we can try a different kind for a second feature.” Taking a glance over, he saw that Sherlock was right on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped, feet brushing against one another. “Maybe we could do with another pillow or two, and a throw or duvet?” Working on letting this be more open, he listened further, crouching carefully to insert the DVD into the player. It wasn’t until he heard Sherlock quickly upshot from the sofa and hurry down the hallway, that he attempted to get back on his feet. Dragging the television out further into the room on its stand, John brought up the menu onto the screen, and watched as Sherlock began creating a nest of his own duvet and pillows on the sofa.

It was a pleasure watching Sherlock at work. The movements, his long arms and torso extended as he spread out the duvet, then thought better of it, draping it along the back of the sofa instead. For just a moment he was spread, arms to each side, his cheek turned to press into the midway point so the air trapped beneath would be pushed out to the ends and possibly just to feel the comforting softness against his face. Smoothing, his musician’s fingers getting rid of creases and folds, the dressing gown was caressing his sides and drifting over his lean hips as he spread the duvet, curls without any product bouncing at the back of his head, the flex of his toes that John was learning came with concentration. The four throws he’d drawn out of storage were shaken loose, two each for he and John, but he let John’s stay folded while his own were coiled and fluffed. Loosening his frame, it could only be said that he snuggled down into the throws then, pulling a pillow onto his lap, his chin resting just over the edge as he drew up his knees.

John took a moment to let that settle in, deciphering what was going as the mixture of blue, grey, oatmeal, and not-quite-camo green were given their placements according to Sherlock’s mind, and why his own was kept in precise folds. “Military,” he murmured, and his younger companion saw the direction of his gaze, nodding a little.

Another piece fitted into this intricate puzzle, where it had been just along the edge of the larger picture before. John was smiling again, which helped Sherlock breath, and the doctor circled around to sit on the sofa. He reached down to begin untying his shoes, noticing as Sherlock started to dart forward, but leveling a hand out to keep his helpmate on the furniture. Once rid of both, John shifted backward further, half orienting his body onto the sofa so he was able to see the television better. Collecting the remote from the sofa arm, and looking over to Sherlock who was seemingly trapped in an anxiously expectant pose, John pushed the button on the menu to start the film.

“This isn’t Hitchcock, in fact it’s a lot more recent than his films, but I think you might like figuring out the plot on this one. I’ll refrain from showing you the back of the DVD box, so you can make your own deductions.” Those creases were along his eyes again, and he was picking up one of the camo throws to toss over his feet, which he stretched out onto the coffee table. “Hand me the bowl, and a glass of the scotch?” No embarrassment for either of them this way, because he was comfortable, and Sherlock could do something for him–which seemed to be the young man’s primary interest.

“Oh, yes.” No distance at all for the shop keeper, gathering the bowl to then hand to John, and waiting until the doctor had it fitted near his hip before he offered him the glass of scotch. Once John had the glass in hand, he did notice that Sherlock took a moment to stare at the bowl, almost wrenching the focus of a defeat-filled pair of kaleidoscope eyes from that circle to the credits going across the screen. John didn’t say anything about it, but it wasn’t hard for him to imagine Sherlock there instead, nestled against John’s side, and readying for further enlightenment on the things the doctor enjoyed. Plain enough that was what had been tracking through Sherlock’s mind, but he’d see how the viewing went before considering it further.

The next hour and a half went by with Sherlock puzzled, then completely rapt. Having seen the film himself innumerable times, John was more interested in the young man’s reactions, because he’d seen interesting ones as a result of the events unfolding on screen and he knew Sherlock was far more intelligent than his shy demeanor would allow him to normally exhibit in John’s company. He didn’t answer the questions directed his way, but it was clear that he enjoyed everything Sherlock was asking, rapid as the questions were:

“Why are they so dull? They have no facial expressions.”

“Why is he the new therapist?”

“Did that lamp from the last scene just disappear?”

“He can’t trust the weatherman? That reminds me of Mycroft, except he isn’t hearing voices.”

And then later…

“Why are there twins and triplets coming out of that room?”

“Why are they walking from that direction, when a moment ago they were coming from the other side?”

“Oh, look. 21 is everywhere.”

“How did he go from being in an aquarium in one frame, to being outside their apartment in the next one, but still underwater?”

And finally…

“Why Hamlet? Is it because of the skull?”

They continued, and Sherlock watched as a woman lived with a dog that was supposedly put down when the suicidal young man had been a child. She lived in a house with an empty refrigerator, and toward the end, the scenes had been played over and over with subtle differences in each replay.

“Oh, he hit his head in the car accident, and he’s dying isn’t he?” Sherlock did turn his eyes away to ask this, and John nodded to him.

“Correct. But, it’s not as simple as all that.” The ending had been somewhat ambiguous, pieces that the dying young man should not have been able to see, but were nonetheless present in the narrative. Pieces that had slipped through his consciousness from what the people surrounding him in last moments, had been able to process. Sherlock was silent when the movie drew to a close.

The popcorn had been substantially depleted by the time they’d gotten halfway through the movie, but John wasn’t about to ask Sherlock to make more or otherwise upset their nest. He’d moved the bowl onto the floor near his feet, done the same with his empty glass, and remained steadfast as Sherlock would leap up in exasperation, falter, then collapse like a marionette with each change in the plot line.

Night had fallen outside, and since the kitchen light had been likewise shut off before the movie, only the light from the television was there to illuminate the features of his fairer companion. The colors running through his eyes were so absorbing to John, that the doctor only barely paid attention to the middle of the movie, and by the end Sherlock had managed to pop up and down so many times that his throws, pillows, and he were all much closer to John’s end of the sofa, than they had been at the beginning. The credits were rolling before the normally very observant Sherlock noticed his new proximity to the doctor, resulting in his hastily gathering his objects of softness, and edging backward to the opposite side.

“It’s fine. I don’t mind. Another?” John’s voice had taken on a different timbre at the late stage of the hour, and the credits were rolling as Sherlock uncoiled from a newly protective posture with his pillow shield back in place. Like an unwound clock, the younger man loosened, agile limbs splaying as he looked to the television, then back at the doctor.

His reply wasn’t immediate, but he eventually got there, his own voice lowering in a way that was more a deference than an issue of sharing confidences, as John’s had been. “Please. I’ll…I’ll be right…back?” Sideways edging got him off the sofa, and while he didn’t run exactly, he was definitely bolting for the bathroom down the hall.

John took off his own throw to lower his legs, stretching both of them as he eased onto his feet, the sudden activity from Sherlock curiously endearing as the doctor limped off toward the DVD player and television to put in a new movie. There wasn’t pain though, and this was a gift unto itself, the limping just the standard loss of sensation from having ones feet raised upward for too long.

He did see Sherlock veer out from his bedroom, rather than the bathroom, on his return. No explanation, but he had a wariness in his eyes that said he was well aware John had seen, and that there might be something requested. Nestling back onto his pile with his bum, scooting and getting where and how he wanted to be, Sherlock’s knees pulled up toward his chest, one after the other. The whole time, he kept his eyes on John, even when he dragged his second throw up over his shoulders high enough that he was just hair and eyes.

John took his own time, letting Sherlock get re-acclimated, then put himself back into the same upward position as before. Feet left on the floor though, and maybe his hip was jutting a touch further in Sherlock’s direction than during the previous film as he motioned to his left thigh. “If you get tired…” Offering his leg as a prop for a pillow, a head of shiny dark curls or whatever Sherlock felt comfortable trying.

Clearly, this had been unexpected, and Sherlock eyes shifted into the greener range while the pupils dilated. Moving though too, once he’d knew he had permission, and the young man pushed his two pillows and extra throw toward the doctor’s leg. He sorted one pillow along John’s hip, put a throw over just his own feet, kept the one over his shoulders while allowing his head to finally escape, and rested his cheek on the solid firmness of John’s leg. The second pillow he kept as his shield to the rest of the room, his legs drawing up, and his feet doing more of that brushing together they seem to do when he was anxious or otherwise unwell. “Thank you.” It was a whisper at most, but John rested his hand on Sherlock’s head, touching the menu button the remote with the other.

Although that had both rested earlier in the day, the combination of a good meal, alcohol, and safe company in a warm pile had resulted in both men falling asleep halfway through the second film. It was Sherlock, however, that awoke first. The DVD was replaying the menu on loop, but he didn’t dare turn it off quite yet, because he cautiously turned his face around to be able to see John without awakening him.

In the dim light, and in repose, the lines on John’s face were much lessened. Although Sherlock liked their presence normally, without anyone the wiser to see it happen, Sherlock almost let his fingers touch the locations that were smoothed out. Curling his touch away, his hand tucked up under his chin instead, but he let his own eyes roam over the prominent brows, heavily-lidded eyes, and upturned nose of his companion. Down further, the crease of lips and determined chin, then the wide shoulders and still muscular arms. John’s chest, with the rise and fall of steady breaths, not shaken by nightmares right now. What of his stomach was visible, not steel hard, but with a minor overlap that spoke of his age, time inactive since leaving the service, and tempting to Sherlock as resting place with which he might eventually be able to come into contact.

The truth was, and Sherlock was acutely aware of it, he didn’t know how to go about being able to let the older man know just how much he already wanted to be his, how a craving had settled in under his ribcage that set his heart pounding, and made everything below his waistline alternately either tight and warm or too loose and prone to buckling. Even now, he could feel his increased pulse again, his breathing becoming a forced thing, and a raw edge sending spikes of electricity up his spine.

Tipping himself ever so slightly forward, he drew in a breath to get more of John’s unique scent into his olfactories, further immersed in the army doctor’s world by virtue of his shampoo, aftershave, and his own skin. Imagining what it would look like, Sherlock visualized the woods, not the dessert heat that might have been expected. The scent of the scotch added to this, but the aftershave brought in notes of musk, and leather.

Oh.

That further sent Sherlock into his exploration, and he started slotting details into his Mind Palace, adding another leather club chair to the area already outfitted for John, and the formative stages of another room that carried the leather perfume through tools such as a crop, a small flogger, and straps for the bed that still had not been set in the bedroom. Shutting down anything further, his body beginning to very much betray his state, he forced an evenness to his breath before resting his hand on John’s bicep to give it a firm squeeze.

“Mmm, please wake up. You need your bed, D…Sir. I mean, John.” Faltering out, he tried nudging a bit, and that seemed to meet with success as the doctor roused and blinked away the fuzz coating his brain. It didn’t take John long to become aware though, years of army training and doctor’s duties doing their level best to have him in readiness.

“Hello, there. Dozed off, did I?” He still sounded drowsy, but he was smiling well enough, and then studying Sherlock’s expression like one might read a beloved book. He could tell the younger man didn’t quite know what to say yet, as he only received a tentative nod in response, so he filled in the blanks for Sherlock. “Guess my bones do need a better surface, if I’m to get up tomorrow, and find that job.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, still soft, but with more bravado and sureness. “Mm, yes. You should wear a blue button down, and black trousers with jacket. They’re bound to yield, you’ll have a job in no time…if you give them your Captain Watson, look.” His voice did fade there at the last, but he kept the eye contact he’d determinedly aimed at John, and was trying to ignore the harder thrum of his heart.

“Is that all, then? To make someone yield…?” Someone or Sherlock. John let it linger there between them, but his eyes were suggesting it was the latter, and Sherlock darted his own away so he could pretend to sort out the items he’d drawn from his bedroom, gathering them up.

“Of course, different things…work on different people, but…yes.” Sherlock still wasn’t making eye contact, but he wasn’t leaving John’s side either, and it took the doctor standing up and turning off the television for the mood to lift.

“Maybe, so. Maybe, so.” John was thoughtful, and Sherlock sat there reading it off his face, the lines of old sadness and pain reappearing now that he knew John was questioning his own worth. “Right, well. I’m for bed then. Goodnight, Sherlock.” John didn’t turn back to look at the younger man again, only rounded the edge of the coffee table, and picked up his used dishes to put in the kitchen before leaving the lower level to go up to his bedroom.

“Yes, goodnight.” Sherlock had more or less whispered it, but made sure he was smiling encouragingly, just in case John did try to give him a final looking over. Picking up his own used items, he deposited them in the sink, listening to John’s progress as he did so. Once the doctor was up the stairs, Sherlock was all arms and legs splaying widely, scooping up the pillows and throws so that he might race down the hallway.

He shut the door, but practically bounced off the mattress as he threw everything else onto it with equal zeal. Getting his mobile off the bedside table, he brought up the contacts, hit the correct name, touched the number, and waited for the call to go through. It only rang once, before the voice on the other end of the line greeted him.

“Hello, Little Brother. Enjoying some quality time with Dr. Watson?” Mycroft’s superior tone was so clear that Sherlock’s spine snapped to, and his teeth clenched.

“You fix this. You fix this now.” Scraping those teeth now, sliding them against one another, he finally ended up biting his bottom lip so hard it nearly bled.

“Sentiment, Sherlock. He’s something new, and it provides you with a means to alleviate boredom. It’s hardly worth mentioning, much less fixing what is not broken.” There was more steel in Mycroft’s tone now, a refusal in that supreme way of his, that none should doubt his correctness.

“You know that’s not true. You know it. Fix this…” Sherlock pressed his eyes tightly shut, almost choking on what came out of his mouth after, but he had to get his brother to understand. “You know this is different. Please…please, Mycroft. I need him to know. I need…him.” John wasn’t just a diversion, wasn’t just a lark.

There was a paused, but then also a dramatic sigh on the other end of the line. “You will tire of him within the month, which means our arrangement would have been disrupted for nothing. No, no things will remain as they are. It’s for your own good, Sherlock. Goodbye, Brother Mine.” Mycroft rang off then, not even giving Sherlock the dignity of a chance at further rebuttal.

Miserable, Sherlock threw his phone at the chair by his wardrobe, then tossed himself into the pillows and throws littering his bed. They smelled of John, and he began raking them around his head and shoulders, desperate for just that small comfort. His knees were pulling up, his feet brushing against one another, and for the second time he found himself sobbing into his bed over the doctor he was unlikely to have. 

0o0o0o0

Over the course of the next two weeks, Sherlock and John began settling into a pattern of domesticity. On the nights he didn't have class, he and John would eat the dinner he'd prepared, and then sit in the living room and explore more films together. John had gotten his second pick of jobs from the list Sherlock had provided, and had exchanged it with the younger man for a list of his favorite foods, drinks, etc. He only worked one night shift during those two weeks, and Sherlock had two nights of class, but mostly theirs was an evening life together. Sherlock still had the teashop to work in during the day of course, and on his lunch breaks John would stop in so they could either go out or eat a packed lunch in the back room. A bell had been installed the first week, so if a customer came in, Sherlock would hasten forward to wait on them. 

It suited both men well, and made it possible for John to watch Sherlock further as he used his intellect and quiet charisma to entrance customers of all kinds, deducing what tastes they preferred, what sorts of lines they wanted on their dishware, and how much of everything they would need, before they'd even made it well into the shop. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock was much more confident around these people, that he maintained a reserved politeness with them, and his voice never stuck in his throat, his eyes never dropped away in confusion or display over a stumbled phrase, because he was seldom wrong in his assessments. At first, it had been a troubling thing for John, because although he was silently pleased that Sherlock was fine around others, it did concern him that perhaps they'd never reach that level of ease. By the second week, however, he was considering himself fortunate, in that the young man he saw with the public was just doing his job, using the diversion for what it was, and that only John seemed to be able to engender any real warmth into the protective layer.

By week three, everything was outwardly perfect, and John knew it would be a simple thing to misconstrue what they had built. Indeed, Mike and Molly had both either mentioned it or made it apparent by a curious, then bemused expression while John was present, and Sherlock wasn't looking. When Mike asked, however, John had to tell him the truth. "He has a boyfriend. Trevor. Good looking young man, tall like him, but solid and obviously very fond of him." 

John and Mike were outside the shop, drinking tea while Sherlock helped a customer, and Mike was weighing his next words. "Fond of him or in love with him?" For all his easy manners and ability at banter, for not making feel pressured or off, Mike wasn't a stupid man either. He knew what he saw in his old friend's eyes when he looked at Sherlock, and he knew what he saw in Sherlock's as well. He knew that had to be eating away at them both, so this news was unwelcome, and maybe he could help. He was a doctor too, after all.

John shrugged a bit stiffly, a nostril flaring as his lips temporarily thinned, and he took a sip from his cup. "Couldn't say. I've only met him once, actually. Guessing he must be gone for awhile, because he hasn't been back around the flat, and Sherlock hasn't mentioned him to me." Yes, he knew there were many explanations, but he was trying not to let hope have its way with him. He was too old, and too worn down in some places, to have affection go wild and then have it all dashed if he was mistaken.

"Did they break up?" Mike wasn't letting this rest, and John could be angry at him now, if it meant they'd both have some peace when all was said and done. He didn't pin John with his gaze, but kept up his casually nonchalant survey of the local population dashing from location to location. "You know he likes you, John. Well, more than likes you. He might be free, and just not be able to tell you in a way that he thinks you'll accept." 

The first thing out of John's mouth was a hot remark, so he shut it down, not wanting to bite off Mike's head. Not the other man's fault that he was in this mess, well, not exactly anyway. He apparently hadn't known Sherlock had a boyfriend, especially one he'd been with for this long. "Two years, that's how long they've been together. I doubt it's ended on account of me, of all people." He hated this, this thinking of himself as less, and went on. "At any rate, I made a date for next week. Sister of a patient Sarah had in last week. We'll see how that goes." He wouldn't look at Mike now, knowing it was a cowardly move, but he couldn't pine away for a young man almost half his age, either. 

Mike didn't want to judge, so he nodded quietly in the process of absorbing this last part of what John told him. A few more drinks of his tea, the cup was empty, and he turned toward the door of the shop so he could return the dish to Sherlock. "I hope you know what you're doing, and that it all goes well. Just don't miss out on someone like Sherlock, because...You know." You're unwilling to fight for him, you're concerned about being too old, you're not sure of how he feels. Mike knew he didn't have to say all that.

His friend was rewarded with an expulsion of breath and sedate nod of head from John, whose fingers were clenching on his own fine china, forcibly undone so he didn't snap the delicate piece of crystalline blue with gold etching. Extending the cup out to Mike, and clearing his throat, John made ready to go back to his own job site. "Thanks, Mike. I will take it under advisement." A bitter slant to his smile at first, but he made it warmer, handing the cup to the other doctor. "Give this back to him when you go in, yeah? I have an appointment with a pair of swollen tonsils in about fifteen minutes." He still used his cane, and once Mike took the cup from him, John was limping down the sidewalk toward the clinic. He didn't see the younger man on the other side of the teashop glass watching him, the confusion going through the blue-green eyes or downward pull of the cupid's-bow lips that had been keeping him awake some nights well after he went upstairs to his all-but-vacant bedroom.


	6. Infiltration

It was because of that routine into which they’d somewhat comfortably settled, that John knew when something was wrong. He had been to work, and come back two hours ago, but there had still been no sign of Sherlock. Of course, it did occur to him that perhaps Victor and Sherlock were reunited, leaving him no real place in Sherlock’s schedule. 

“You’re a bloody fool, and you know it, and it’s time to stop.” John had his own date, but he hadn’t wanted to leave without first seeing Sherlock. Just being around the younger man made him feel better, lighter, less boring and common, less broken and concerned about the future. He wanted a future with Sherlock, that was true, but he wanted to enjoy the present with him as well. 

Checking his phone to see if he’d somehow missed a text from the shop keeper, despite knowing he hadn’t since he’d checked it half a minute before, he started going through his texts and touched on the number for Wendy. Ringing on the other end, and he wasn’t even really sure what all he said by way of explanation, but here he was now dressed for a date he’d cancelled. Trying Sherlock’s number, it didn’t even ring. Went to voicemail, which had not been set up, so he texted him one more time. 

Date is off. Ordering takeaway. What would you like from Angelo’s? No reason for Sherlock to know, just yet anyway, that it had been John that canceled the date. 

John waited a solid ten minutes, but got nothing in return. That was unlike Sherlock, at least as far as he knew. He could be at a show or, and John really didn’t want to think about it, he was too involved with Victor in some way in order to do something like reach for his mobile. 

A soldier’s instincts though, they told him something else was happening. Something was off. Wrong. Pulling up his contacts, he put in a call to Mike, who’d seen Sherlock after John had left for work.

“John, hello.” Mike sounded cheery, and had he been in a better mood, John would have asked himself for the thousandth time how it was that the other man usually seemed in such good spirits, no matter the time of day or situation. 

“Hey, Mike. Yea, I’m…well…I’m just wondering if you knew where Sherlock was? He’s not replying to my texts.” John knew his own voice sounded tight, and he was curling his hand into a repeated fist as he waited just the few seconds for Mike to respond. 

“I thought you had a date, tonight?” Mike was quick with that though, and John inwardly swore. 

“I cancelled. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong, but it just seems like something isn’t right. Sherlock always replies.” Forcing his fingers straight, John sat down in his chair, where they just resumed that curling on the arm. 

“Sorry, John. He was still at the shop when I left, mentioned he had a bit of stock to put away, but…Well, he seemed a bit distracted. Worried, maybe?” Mike sounded unsure, as if he thought he might be sharing too much information or he was just completely mistaken.

“Right. Hmmm, I may go check on him then. Thanks, Mike.”

“Sure thing, John. Let me know everything is fine when you can.”  
“Yea, yea, I will.” John hung up, went for his coat, and jammed the mobile in his pocket. He was about to head downstairs when that nagging sensation tickled at his neck again, and he went up instead. The gun wasn’t standard issue, wasn’t even legal, but he had it anyway. Locked up within a foam-lined case, hidden in the back of the closet, and then in the right pocket opposite his mobile and keys. The more he thought about what could be happening, the faster he got, and he rushed out without thinking of anything else beyond his need to locate Sherlock and determine that he was safe. 

The tube would take too long, and he didn’t like wasting money, but he hailed the first cab he saw. Address of the tea shop almost snapped out at the driver, his knee was bouncing up and down as the cab started off. The cabbie made a comment about him being wound up, and a joke about the destination being a good destination to resolve that, but John only looked at him with a withering stare and then directed his eyes to the world passing by outside the cab window. People walking, people laughing, lights, and more lights. None of it really interested him, and he wasn’t actually seeing any of it. 

When they got to the shop, he paid the cabbie, but only just. He’d been about to run off before the man halted him, and he pulled out a wad of bills without counting them. It was foolish, and he didn’t wait for change. Colder now, only a few degrees, but enough that he could see his breath when he swore when the cab pulled off back into the flow of traffic.

Scanning the front of the building, he didn’t head for the door. The lights were all off, except for the pink sign in the window, and one over the counter by the register. Beyond the midway point of the shop, he couldn’t see the interior, and he wasn’t going to just barge in without knowing the situation. 

Circling to the alleyway, John sent a spare look around his surroundings, all that he needed to get his bearings. There were pools of water from rain earlier in the day, and a couple of dumpsters with their lids pulled back, but not overflowing their debris. No signs of a human presence or any indication there had been one in the last few hours. He slipped past the brick exterior, not quite walking sideways, keeping the shop’s walled edifice protecting his back and shoulder. 

Trying the back door, he found it unlocked, and his hand was already circling the gun to gently draw it out of the pocket. A thumb flipped the safety off, and he didn’t extend his arm all the way as he pushed the door open just enough to gain access to the stockroom. Letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior, he didn’t move further inside, and he was listening. 

At first, there was nothing. Another man would have stopped the manner of stealth John was utilizing, but he would rather look back and consider his actions too careful than have something go critically wrong, and regret it later. John had had enough of regrets, especially where Sherlock was concerned. A silence that seemed impenetrable, one that dragged on for several minutes, was all that met him. John was just about to proceed into the main part of the shop, taking one cautious step after another, when he heard it.

“You won’t get away with it. My brother is already on the way, and the cameras will have taken all the footage we need to have you put away.” Sherlock’s voice, but it didn’t sound certain. He normally did, when here, in his domain. Maybe not with John, but that was a different story, and John didn’t have time to dwell on it right now.

“We already disabled the cameras in the corners, and the one under the counter.” A voice like steel, much steadier than Sherlock’s, and it belonged to someone older. 

“There must be something about the number three,” stated Sherlock, sounding slightly more confident. “Everyone always gives up after three.” 

John would have smiled at this, but he was too live-wired right now, and an expected third voice cut through the conversation.

“Sherlock, this really isn’t the time to be showing off. Just give him the memory stick. Please.” Victor. From where John was, however, he couldn’t see the other man or determine whose side he was on. No tactical advantage to that, and John had already eased him almost to the floor, letting the counter block his entrance from view. 

“Yes, Sherlock. Showing off is really the last thing you want to be doing right now. If you’re a good boy though, maybe we’ll end this nice, and you can be doing Victor instead.” John had to guess that meant Victor was the first thing Sherlock would want to be doing, but he absolutely would not let that cause his temper to rise any heigher than it already was, not if endangered Sherlock. 

It was difficult to do, but John almost made himself parallel with the floor, stomach nearly touching the tiles as he slid forward to peer around the edge of the counter. The coat was restricting his movements, leaving them less than they should have been, but he was fairly sure he could defend the younger pair if it came down to it. The quad, for there were four present in the group, was in the left corner of the shop furthest from the front door. Sherlock had his back to where John was, hands up over his head, and Victor was likewise positioned next to him. Victor though, was on his knees, while Sherlock was still on his feet. 

Not making a sound, John continued to watch and wait, concerned if he went off too hastily that Sherlock would be injured. The leader of the Americans, for John knew the accents for what they were, made a gesture to his partner. The second ran forward, the tables of assorted tea things keeping him from seeing where John rested. He checked the front door, and shook his head to the leader. Unfortunately for John, they weren’t separate for long, because the second American hastened to return to the leader so that there was once again two pairs squared off. 

Gauging what next to do, because the shop floor was carpeted beyond where he was currently laid out, John edged backward. Careful of the underside of the counter, so he didn’t slam his head into the hinged surface, he sat back into the quiet space with the counter to his back. There was sweat pooling under the collar of his coat, but he hadn’t felt this alive in months, if one didn’t take into consideration when he was with Sherlock. Denim-colored eyes turned, ran their line of sight down the length of the rest of the counter, because if he could manage it, that counter would take him all the way to the wall and within just a few feet of Sherlock. Too big a risk, and Sherlock still wouldn’t be able to see him from where he was standing. New plan…

“Well, boys. It seems like our time has come. Thank you for being such excellent…” Was all that the lead American got out, before John was up on his feet, aiming his gun at the other man. 

Spotting John, the second American already had his hand upraised, and fired two shots. Victor went over with a groan, hand up toward his chest as far as John could tell from his post. Another shot ringing to also bring Sherlock down into a crumple on the floor, but it was clear enough that the American had taken a head shot, firing even as he began running for the front of the shop. 

Unlike the blonde, Sherlock didn’t make a sound, and John wasn’t taking further chances. Both Americans made it to the front just as John made out the blue and red lights of patrol cars, but he fired off his own two shots to get the knees of the men out from under them. One of them had been halfway through another step, and when the knee buckled, he fell into one of the tables with an accompanying crash of fine china. 

After that, much of what happened was a blur to John. He knew the police came in, and he was aware Mycroft was with him, but he had flung the gun on the floor and practically ripped the counter’s hinged section to hurry and touch his fingertips to the side of Sherlock’s neck. A side-eye to Victor, who was still awake, a shoulder wound the damage he’d gained from the counter. The younger blonde was blinking rapidly, likely not awake for too much longer, and John did notice as Mycroft began their way, but he ignored them after. 

No time to think about it, John was brushing the matted curls off Sherlock’s forehead, unable to lift the whole onto his lap where he knelt down. A good amount of red was running in a stream from just over Sherlock’s left ear, and John was assessing the damage. 

“Sherlock, stay with me. Can you hear me, Sherlock? Sherlock?” It was an anxious whisper, and John was biting back more than a few tears, but he refused to give into terror. Realistically, he knew it wasn’t a terrible wound, but even for a seasoned soldier, it appeared to be a great deal of blood. 

The ambulance team had to convince John to back off, albeit without much success, and it was oddly Victor that stayed awake long enough to see that matters unfolded as they did.

“Dr. Watson, it’s just a scratch. You must let the other experts see to him.” Mycroft, not sounding so smug, but not apologetic or unduly concerned either. Just very, very practical.

“My…My…let him be. He’s…he loves him. Tell him. Your fault. All…tell him.” Victor got this much out, before fear, exhaustion, and blood loss sent him under. He was on a stretcher and being wheeled out as the team pulled John off from his tending Sherlock, and the army doctor strained to get to his feet, leveling a quite direct expression at Mycroft. 

It didn’t last, and John didn’t ask, following in the wake of the medical crew as they put Sherlock on a second stretcher, and wheeled the younger man out to the waiting vehicle. When they tried to keep him from getting into the ambulance as next of kin, John finally snapped.

“I am going with him. He’s mine…he’s my responsibility. I am a doctor, fully trained, and I was in the army. You will NOT get me out of this vehicle, do you understand?” Had Sherlock been awake, he would have recognized John’s full-on Captain Watson voice, and been amazed by it. As it was, the medical team was more interested in getting the two victims to hospital, and just let John have his way with a couple of wary nods and shifting glances between them. 

In the back of his mind, John knew Mycroft must have been in a second ambulance with Victor, but he was concentrating on the curly-haired body in front of him, whispering encouraging things while simultaneously trying not to be in the way of the staff as they provided oxygen and checked Sherlock’s information in some database John would wonder about later before starting an IV of fluids and pain medication. 

“I’m here. I know you probably can’t hear me, but I’m here, and…Christ, Sherlock…Don’t you go out on me, not like this. There is so much…I have to tell you, and I know there is something someone isn’t saying, but don’t think about that right now. I want you to…fuck…No, I mean I want you to wake up, because we need to talk. About this. About us. About Victor.” It was all coming out in a spew, and had he cared right then, John might have been more self conscious about airing all this in front of the two that were working on Sherlock. But, he didn’t care. At least, not about them.

It seemed as though it took forever, and when they pulled up to the location, John didn’t try to bolt out of the ambulance first. Staying back, he let the doors swing wide, and Sherlock be pulled out with the stretcher safely meeting the ground before he hopped out behind him. He touched to his side, aware that he’d left his gun back at the shop, and lifted his gaze to see that they were not in fact at a local hospital. 

The stretcher was rolled into the house, for that is what it was, and the second ambulance drew up alongside the one from which they’d extracted Sherlock. Victor on his stretcher was pushed in behind the darker-haired man, but once they were past the point of an overly extravagant first floor, John saw that Victor was wheeled off into a separate private room on the second level across from Sherlock’s own.

From the stone edifice outside with the lions rampant, to the paneled alcoves and grand staircase they had all passed to access an unlikely elevator, John could tell the residence was no simple home. Paintings hung on the wall, some of the portraits in gilt frames dating back to possibly the seventeenth-century, an occasional shape of face or unusual eye color leaving no doubt the home belonged to the Holmes family. Ornamental carvings and everything highly polished, he didn’t contemplate the amount of staff it would take to keep the place in working order, because he was too intent on watching the medical staff that went into full action once they entered the suite for Sherlock.

More database checking, all of it in a rush, but with such skill John could only stand back and wait. Sherlock’s vitals had been taken in the ambulance, but the doctor that entered the room and ignored John entirely, nodded to the nurse that was also now assisting when she ran them a second time. Heart monitor, oxygen level, blood pressure, temperature, all the basics. Blood too, bags of it already in a small refrigeration unit disguised as a bookcase, had been drawn out and set up to replenish what had been list. The second of two bags now hung on the stand, running through the needle that was taped to stay constant into the veins on Sherlock’s arm. Something about those veins though, and it hit home to John an instant later, that they had seen more needles than ought to be true of someone as healthy as Sherlock normally, outwardly, appeared. 

A series of new questions sprung to mind, but John wasn’t going to leave in order to ask them of Mycroft, and he didn’t even seek a chair until one of the staff assured him they’d done all they could right now, and he might as well rest. It was in fact only then that John became aware that he’d left his cane back at 221B, so focused on Sherlock’s possible need of him that he’d completely skipped over his potential need of it. Had he been a better state, it would have brought on a smile, if not an outright laugh. He knew he’d been on the floor, he’d even been on his knees, and all without assistance.

There was no clock in the room, but after the group left him alone with Sherlock, he drew out his phone to see the time. Just after nine, early yet, but he fought off the urge to call Mike and apprise him of the situation. Mycroft first, that’s who he’d speak to, if Sherlock didn’t wake up before that. Finally taking the leather club chair, unknowingly occupying just the design Sherlock had put into his John Space within his Mind Palace, John pulled it closer to the bed so he could hold onto Sherlock’s hand.

“I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know if they can, for that matter, but it doesn’t matter what they hear. I love you. I think you know that. I…I hope you know that. Maybe you don’t. Maybe I’ve been too caught up in my own misery, and haven’t looked after you as I should have, but…Well, that’s going to change. If you want it to. If you don’t want Victor or well…” He honestly didn’t know how to end that part of his thoughts, didn’t think being grim would accomplish anything at all, but not knowing what to say instead. So, he squeezed the long pale fingers clasped in his own, brushed his lips against the knuckles, and pressed his eyes shut to temporarily block out the sight in front of them. “Pull through…for me. Just, please.” Whispered, this much, and he waited.


	8. Please

There had been no reply to what John told Sherlock, but the former soldier had remained awake in order to be certain the younger man would be able to see himself as protected, when he did awaken. Foolish, but time seemed slower now, the adrenaline rush gone. It was now just John's mind playing over the events he'd experienced in 221B with Sherlock, adding in when he should have said or done something else to solidify their attachment to one another.

He thought about the layout of the flat, his chair and Sherlock’s, one worn and yet comfortable, with the sleeker one of larger dimensions across from it. Sherlock had already moved in when John arrived, but now he considered that Sherlock had possibly hoped so much that he would take the lodging, that’d set up the ideal chairs, the plaid throw for John’s aching leg, the pillow with its flag of England for the man that had served his country.

Something in his chest pulled, and he laid his hand across the place of spasm. The trouble was, John wanted to say, "Trevor, be damned," but the other blonde had been kind and supportive as far as John could tell. It was an awkward situation at best, and at worst, tearing him inside. He'd have to accept that if Sherlock wanted to remain with Trevor, then John would need a new place to live, and he'd have to recover a second time in a beige bedsit. In some ways, the wound this time would be more horrible than the war injury had been. What phantom pain would crop up this time, where no actual physical injury could be seen? Would he bother allowing a healing time or just take matters into his own hands, as he’d come close to doing several times before meeting Sherlock?

It was sometime around eleven when Mycroft entered the room, accompanied by Trevor, who was in plain cotton pajamas with a matching sling to keep his range of movement limited. John said nothing, but looked at them both, expectantly. Trevor wore the faintest trace of a smile, probably meant to reassure the doctor, but having a limited effect and it was gone hardly before it began. With his good arm, he nudged Mycroft, who had been looking at his brother on the bed. Mycroft roused from some mental state he'd slipped into, and nodded that he was back to awareness, his eyes turning to focus on the doctor.

"I feel I owe you, and my brother, an apology." It was a beginning, and he looked strained making the preamble, but continued. "I am sorry if my plans made years ago, have deprived you both of a life that might have been happier before now." He stopped there, unsure of where to go on, in a very unMycroft movement of needing emotional support of his own.

John, having no idea what was going on, had brows thickly drawn down, and his lips thinned almost flat. When he saw Mycroft's behavior, he tried to set aside a rising tide of anger, but couldn't quite keep the level of demand from his tone. "No. What? What have you done?" Maybe knowing he wouldn't get the full lot of details from Mycroft, he sought Trevor's eyes instead, breath getting less steady by the moment.

Trevor sighed, but did the explaining that would change everything. "It's like this, Dr. Watson. Sherlock and I were never together. Mycroft and I are together, but Sherlock had a drug addiction problem two years ago, and to protect us both, Mycroft had us pretend to be a couple." He paused, but then went on to help fill in the initial gaps in the explanation. "Sherlock and I did meet at school, and we did hit it off, but one reason was because we both prefer men of a certain age range, and a certain take-charge attitude. We tried going out on one date, and it was a disaster, but we discovered our mutual taste, and became fast friends. He introduced me to Mycroft over the Christmas holiday that year, and by New Year's, Mycroft and I were a done deal. But..."

John was floored now, eyes widely opened, and quickly glancing between the two men in front of him. Mycroft and Trevor, a couple. Not Sherlock and Trevor. There had never been a Sherlock and Trevor. There would never be a Sherlock and Trevor.

Mycroft picked up where Trevor, who now clasped his lover's hand in his own, continued the explanation as he ought. "But, with my rising position in the government, and Sherlock's need for someone to make sure he stayed clean, I needed assistance. So, I devised the plan that Trevor and Sherlock should pose as a couple, until such time as I was certain Sherlock was off the sweeties, and Trevor would be safe after his graduation. They were in the same program, and got along so well, that it was never really an issue." He didn't sound annoyed that it now was, but he was finally leveling his gaze pointedly at John.

"Well, it's not an issue now. You have Trevor, things will be out in the open or however you want to sort them out between you, but Sherlock is mine to look after." John seemed very sure of that, and shifted his weight, chin coming up as he defied to Mycroft to gainsay this announcement.

"And what if my little brother does not want to be looked after, by you...in a romantic capacity?" It wasn't a dare, but Mycroft evidently truly wanting to know, a line of worry creasing his forehead. Trevor squeezed his hand, but did nothing further, looking John's direction to see what plans John had to replace the one Mycroft had created for their group.

"I said I would look after him, and I will. Even if he doesn't want me...in that way." John refused to look despondent over the idea, and wouldn't let the echoes of "because I am broken, I am old, I have nothing to offer him" go through his mind. Obstinate, he was. Especially about this.

They were all so invested in this discussion, they missed Sherlock's eyes flickering open, and John was actually surprised when he felt the long fingers of the violinist slide into his own. That hand could have easily encased his own, but Sherlock had chosen to be the one covered by John's smaller, heavier hand. "I do. Want you, in that way. He knows it."

Sherlock's voice was dim and scratchy, but John heard him without a problem, and his lips went from tightly thinned to turning into a glowing smile. The lines about his eyes didn't diminish, but the look of anger, fear, and determination became one of simply determination laced with utmost affection. "There we are then. We'll go back home when you're well, and be together. We can sort out the how and whats then, but I want you to rest, and recover." Inflection was everything, and John had his most direct voice in play now, not missing the slight enlarging of Sherlock's pupils as he heard it.

"Yes, Sir." No need to pretend anything else, not even in front of Mycroft and Trevor, similar relationships being as they were. For the first time in awhile, Sherlock looked at peace, though his eyes shut as he followed the orders.

Seeing this, John sat back down, but maintained hold of Sherlock's hand. Still being direct, he looked again to Mycroft and Trevor. "He needs rest, and you can explain to me later how these two ended up being shot by two Americans in a tea shop of all places." He didn't say it, but the Get Out was more or less implied, and he nodded toward the door in case his tone of voice somehow wasn't enough.

Trevor outright grinned, but did wait until Mycroft had cleared his throat, and accepted the course change for what it was. "Very well. I've had the room next door made up for your use Dr. Watson, and will send for whatever belongings you wish to have for the next few days. Sherlock is likely in no danger now, but the doctor on my staff would like to keep him here at least until Friday to make certain." He started to turn away, drawing Trevor along behind him, but looked back toward John before the doctor could do anything else. "Welcome to the family, John."

The two older men shared a nod of mutual respect, because though John would no doubt be angry again at Mycroft soon enough, right now he was just too grateful and excited to waste time on the other emotion. Mycroft departed with Trevor, and John let his eyes settle on the form of Sherlock, with his flickering eyelids. He knew Sherlock wasn't asleep yet, but he said nothing further, simply covering the dark-haired young man's hand with his other, so that most of Sherlock's hand was contained in John's capable ones.

0o0o0o0

Sherlock was not in danger any longer, but they did stay until Friday. John’s belongings were delivered, as promised, and he only left Sherlock when it was necessary because his own eyes were closing against his will. They conversed when Sherlock was awake, but John kept the topics light, and insisted Sherlock not strain himself, letting the medical staff do their work, and John bearing the burden of reading or attending to other more minor needs as they arose.

In the cab back to 221B, he kept his distance, not letting his hand drift to span the short reach for a clasp with Sherlock’s. It was difficult, but he knew the younger man was on medication for pain, and he didn’t find it right to press his advantage, in case Sherlock changed his mind. He did realize Sherlock still called him Sir, but it was a matter for closed doors, once they were home.

Mrs. Hudson tutted a bit as they arrived, explained she had stocked the fridge, and also ordered take away to delivered later in the evening. Beyond that, perhaps with the intuition of mother figure, she departed and did not say anything further. John did a quick check to take inventory of the fridge contents, and set about pouring out the tea she’d already had prepared in the kettle. It didn’t escape his notice that she had set out matching cups, not the expensive ones from the elaborate set, but a simple nice pair in black and blue. Sherlock might be appalled by the situation, but he had feeling that it wouldn’t be an issue.

As he walked back into the living room, Sherlock was hanging his coat, and turned to look toward John cautiously. Rubbing his hands nervously over the sides of his suit, the first set of real clothing he had worn since being shot days before. It was his usual mode of dress, but right now it seemed not to fit him, at least emotionally.

“Well, I expect you’ll be wanting to go to your room, and rest for awhile. Here is a cup of tea though, and here...” John picked up a small bell from within the table clutter, handing it toward Sherlock. “In case you need anything else.” His thin lips were in a smile, but that spasm was crossing through his chest again.

“Do you...That is, we’re home...and I...” Sherlock took the cup and the bell, but didn’t seem to know what to do with either of them. Leaning forward, past John, he looked questioningly toward the doctor. John nodded, not sure what was going on precisely, and Sherlock set both of them down. “Sir, can we be...us? I mean, can...” He huffed, not knowing what to say or how to get the words out.

“Sherlock, we are us. John and Sherlock. Just as we’ve been.” But, what they had been was possibly not what Sherlock was asking, and John tilted his head to the side as he gave a closer examination of the younger man dilated pupils, uneven breathing, and clenched hands.

“I know, but...Can I...” Then it all came out in a rush. “We haven’t spoken about us, and my not being with Trevor, and I just very much need to know, Sir...Am I yours? I mean...do you want me? I can’t...” His curls were in riot as he shook his head, his face contorted, and the suit would be a ruin, because Sherlock then semi collapsed to his knees, hands grasping tightly onto John’s hips as his own head fell forward to rest against the doctor. “Please, Sir. I can’t do this anymore. I need...please...oh, please.” He was shuddering, hands reflexively working against John, and his forward pressing more tightly.

The spasm in John’s chest gave a final push, then melted away. He didn’t say anything immediate, his fingers automatically twining in the glossy curls, and bringing Sherlock more snugly against his own body. When he realized Sherlock had begun to cry though, he softly smoothed his thumbs along the planes of the young man’s face, tilting it upward. “Of course. I’ve...Well, I’ve thought of nothing else. I just didn’t know if you would want someone...like me. I’m not young, and well, you’ve heard me say all this before.”

Sherlock gasped in a breath, but he was smiling a watery turn of lips, the tears ceasing with only the streaks of former one painting his cheeks. “I am yours. Even if you don’t want me. I can’t...I can’t belong to anyone else. You could stay. You wouldn’t have to leave, and...it wouldn’t be an imposition, and I would be good. I wouldn’t make it awful, I promise.” Still hesitant, there in the eyes, which were shifted to a stormier shade of gray.

“I do want you, sweetheart. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. So yes...You’re mine. For as long as you want to be.” John’s fingers tucked in more tightly, and he leaned to press a kiss onto the nest of curls, Sherlock letting out a relieved sigh against him and whispering ‘Thank you, Sir’ and ‘I will make you proud’ in repetition. He let the moment go on a little younger, cherishing the feeling of having the beautiful man in his arms, but then took on his best voice of low command. “All right, now. Up you go. Hang up the suit, drink the tea, and get into bed. I’ll be in shortly.”

Sherlock almost stumbled with the speed with which he rose, smiling timidly, but with such enthusiasm that John almost didn’t know what to make of it. What had he done to deserve this gorgeous, warm-hearted soul? He watched as Sherlock picked the tea back up, and hastened out of the living room to do as he’d been directed.

**Author's Note:**

> Characters drawn from BBC Sherlock. Some dialogue borrowing in beginning chapters. Explicit rating for later chapters. No beta, and please excuse if some of the terms aren't Britpicked. Just returning to writing fiction. Somewhat inspired by a non fandom mood board I saw on Tumblr: all pink.


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